


Jk, 




ELIZABETH WALLACE 




Book ^4- i^^ 



Copyri§}it]^^_ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr 



A GARDEN OF PARIS 



A GARDEN OF PARIS 



BY 

ELIZABETH WALLACE 

ILLUSTRATED BY 
FRED J. ARTING 




CHICAGO 

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
1911 



..fVO 



<^ Copyright 

A. C. McClurg & Co. 
1911 



^^^ 



Published September, 1911 



Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England 



The Caslon Press 
Chicago 



^'! 



©CU295S89 



Dedicated to 
La Petite Grand'mere 

with 
affectionate homage 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Gray House of the 

Garden 13 

II Visions 24 

III Realities 28 

IV Action 35 

V The Heart of the City . 43 

VI Tante Placide .... 50 

VII The Vanity of Learning . 57 

VIII The Shadows in the Gar- 

den 66 

IX Wedding Bells .... 75 

X Futility 85 

XI The Loneliness of Bleu- 

bleu 90 

XII Philosophy and Poetry . 97 

XIII Dreamers 104 

XIV An Invasion of the Garden 113 

XV Dramatic Reflections . . 119 

XVI La Petite Grand' mere . . 127 



CONTENTS — Continued 



CHAPTER 




PAGE 


XVII 


The Garden after a Storm 


136 


XVIII 


Dinners and Doubts . . 


146 


XIX 


The Pilgrimage . . . 


154 


XX 


The Chateau . . . . . 


163 


XXI 


When East Meets West . 


174 


XXII 


The Romance of Madem- 






oiselle Donatienne . . 


179 


XXIII 


The Revelation .... 


188 


XXIV 


Evening in the Garden . 


194 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 



The Still Waters of the Lake Frontispiece 

Rain in the Garden 13 

Notre Dame 35 

Fontainehleau 45 

The Green Doors 50 

The Merle in the Garden 57 

Shadows in the Garden 66 

The Old Church 77 

The Bibliotheque Nationale . . . . 87 

The Garden Invaded 113 

The Comedie 121 

The Garden after a Storm .... 136 

The Chateau 155 

A Ride to the Town by the Sea . . .174 

The Long Main Street 188 

Across the Sea 194 




A GARDEN OF PARIS 



The Gray House of the Garden 

^TpO-DAY the garden has been deluged with 
-"- rain. Sometimes the rain comes in quick 
pattering big drops, and then the garden looks 
like an impressionist landscape, with queer look- 
ing spots and dabs. Sometimes it comes in thin 
steady streams, and then my landscape changes 
into a pen and ink sketch with fine lines across 
its surface. But to-day the water comes down 
like a veil, and the masses of foliage take on the 
soft grayish gi-een look of a Puvis de Chavannes 

13 



14 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

painting. The birds are sadly drenched and all 
their gayety has died out. Once in a while only 
can I hear a disconsolate peep from them. I 
have flung the window wide open and let the 
dampness fill my room until the atmosphere feels 
like a sponge. The sound of the rain is all one 
can hear, and it seems to shut out the world of 
the present and invite one to vaporous, misty 
musings. 

To-day, when human voices are stilled for the 
moment, inanimate objects become lifelike and 
this old house begins to feel and to live. Its 
familiar lines become more human and it looks 
strangely like a friend. To the world, it shows 
a grave and serious front. The severe lines of 
its impassive facade have been turned for genera- 
tions toward the busy street. It has seen men 
come and go ; it has watched with quiet stoicism 
many a tragedy ; it has heard year after year the 
shrill cries of street vendors — cries that remain 
the same, although the vendors become old and 
pass away. Its solemn walls seem impenetrable, 
but from time to time the huge green doors open 
with a slow dignified motion and you almost 
expect some marvellous revelation to come forth ; 
but it is only the baker boy, whistling merrily. 



THE GRAY HOUSE 15 

with his empty basket balanced nicely on his 
head, or a white-capped blanchisseuse picking her 
way daintily out over the cobble stones. Some- 
times, to be sure, the doors both open wider than 
usual and a carriage drives in; then they close 
again, and the gray f agade looks more portentous 
than ever, more severely silent and inscrutable. 
It must have grown so purely out of self-defence ; 
otherwise it would long since have crumbled 
away in nervous prostration because of the 
waves of excitement, bustling activity, and un- 
ceasing noise breaking against it from morning 
until morning again. 

This is the side it shows to the world, but there 
is another side, turned to the calm and peace of 
tall trees whose tops only are moved by the wind. 
On this side are big generous windows that open 
wide their whole length and let in the sunshine 
and the air, the sweet dampness of a rainy day, 
or the perfect glory of a spring morning in 
France. It is so sudden, so unexpected, to find 
all this eloquence behind the dumb gray stone 
that fronts the street, that one feels the same 
delightful sense of discovery as when in the arid 
monotony of social life one meets suddenly with 
the freshness of a spontaneous and unspoiled 



16 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

mind, or when behind a cold and baffling manner 
one catches a gHmpse of warmth and charm. 

It is this contrast, perhaps, that makes my gar- 
den seem to me a wonderful and precious place, 
more silent and cool because so fearfully near 
the tumult and the glare. Some day you may 
want to come here ; therefore I shall tell you the 
way that leads to it. You must first find a long, 
narrow, busy street on the left bank of the Seine. 
The street looks much narrower than it really is, 
for the little shops and the big ones are so eager 
to display their goods that they run over with 
the enthusiasm of commerce, and spill bargains 
all over the sidewalk. From midnight to morn- 
ing the street is wide and quiet, but about seven 
o'clock some invisible and mischievous genie 
seems to pass along. He stops at every shop and 
pulls a string which brings a tangle of hetero- 
geneous articles out after it and disposes them 
all along the way. 

Here is a charcuterie with neat little pigs 
hanging up in a row, each bearing a proper 
little bouquet on its uncurled and lifeless tail. 
Beneath them are dishes each containing 
an irreproachable and special cut, all the 
way from the vital organs of a chicken to the 



THE GRAY HOUSE 17 

nicely rounded gigot of a luckless sheep. There 
is an ambitious bazaar whose awnings are fes- 
tooned with shoestrings, ribbons, neckties, and 
lace; where dresses and suits are dangling, and 
flaunting their commercial value in the face of 
the passing public. Next door is the shoe store 
of La Vierge Marie, where the poorest as well as 
the most fastidious may be shod. The proprietor 
of this place is an eager, red-headed man who 
darts out once in a while, takes in the personnel 
of those passing : then suddenly his face seems to 
become discomposed; he grows rigid and, open- 
ing his mouth, cries out in a voice so piercing 
that the innocent passer-by stops appalled until 
he grasps the meaning of the cry. This is simply 
an appeal to gentlemen and ladies of taste to 
observe the ridiculously low price at which he is 
selling shoes of an elegance not to be found any- 
where else in Paris. Having delivered his mes- 
sage, he immediately resumes his former peace- 
ful manner and retires to the darkness of his 
interior, there to meditate over new devices by 
which he may decoy the public. His is a daring 
mind which hesitates at no invention if thereby 
he may lure some shining francs from reluctant 
hands. One device to which he resorts with 



18 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

alarming frequency is to place a large placard 
over the cheapest pile of slippers, on which is 
written : " On account of a recent death in the 
firm these slippers will be sold at the risibly low 
figure of two francs a pair." The proprietor 
puts this sign up with a cheerful smile and stands 
alertly at one side waiting for it to take. I 
stopped one day and asked him what fearful 
epidemic was carrying ofif the firm, for it was 
the third time in five weeks that the announce- 
ment of death had appeared. He looked at me 
for a moment gravely, then with a twinkle in 
his eye said, "Ah, it is a sad world, Madame, but 
one must live. What would you ? " 

Across the street Madame Genevieve, a trim- 
looking little woman, has installed her flower 
booth. It is in an angle of the wall and above 
there is the stone image of a tortured Christ in 
a niche built into the house by some pious pro- 
prietor of long ago. The longest stemmed flow- 
ers reach to the agonized limbs and caress them 
with a pitying touch. Madame Genevieve is 
always up betimes and comes back from the mar- 
ket pushing her little cart before her loaded with 
fresh country flowers, sweet white lilacs, buxom 
roses and forget-me-nots with their gentle in- 
sistent note of blue. Soon Madame Genevieve 



THE GRAY HOUSE 19 

has them arranged in stiff Httle bunches tied very 
firmly, with quantities of cord. Of course, if 
you do not find these to your taste, or if Madame 
prefers, another gerbe can be made up for her on 
the spot, a magnificent bouquet, which will last 
for a week, but of course Madame understands 
that it will be more expensive ; but then it is easy 
to see that Madame will not object to that. And 
you leave her bearing a huge bunch for which 
you have recklessly paid sixty cents, and followed 
by her cheerful good wishes. 

Close by her is the Bureau de tabac, where a 
black-eyed, clear-voiced, handsome woman dis- 
penses ansemic-looking cigarettes, dark com- 
plexioned cigars and highly colored liqueurs to 
the clerks and cabmen of the neighborhood, and 
an occasional stamp to a hurried purchaser ; and 
with each sale she bandies words and exchanges 
jokes or bits of gossip. 

Just beyond is the ornate brown front of an 
irreproachable Efablissement Duval, where you 
are absolutely certain of eating exactly the same 
thing, served in exactly the same way, as in hun- 
dreds of kindred establishments all over Paris — 
a fact that should appeal to all well-organized 
minds. 

Between the shoe shop a la Vierge Marie and 



20 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

another equally enterprising emporium of trade 
is the great high door which leads into, and out 
from, the paved court in front of the gray house 
with the garden. When we enter and the heavy 
doors swing close on their hinges, we find our- 
selves walking limpingly over rounded cobble 
stones and looking at the uninviting stable at one 
side where my lord's carriage used to be kept. 
A rosy-cheeked concierge comes to our rescue 
and cries out to us from her low window, where 
little pots of flowers and a huge black cat are 
basking in the warmth, 

" The door at the back of the court, second 
floor, opposite." 

As soon as the real meaning of this enigmatic 
phrase dawns on us we say, " Thank you," and 
pick our way over the tortuous balls of stone. 
The door at the back of the court opens into a 
vestibule guarded by two solemn palms which 
nod gently to us as we pass. The winding stair- 
way is shining with wax, and softly carpeted; 
the railing is very slender and the walls are very 
old. When we reach the door at the back of the 
second floor opposite, fair-haired Alphonsine 
answers the ring with a sunny smile and in a 
liquid voice begs us to enter. 



THE GRAY HOUSE 21 

We pass through a large antechamber and 
enter a salon with three generous windows whose 
doors are flung wide open, and through the win- 
dows comes a wonderful melody of sound, and 
from them we can see a wonderful harmony of 
color. The world from which we have just 
come suddenly slips away from us. Not a cry 
from the street is heard, no noise of wheels or 
cracking whips, no hint of trade, no jargon of 
voices; only the concert of birds, hundreds of 
them, who are joyously piping in the tall trees, a 
glad audacious wanton flinging of their whole 
being into this welcome to spring. 

The garden is big and full of splendid tall trees 
and carpeted with velvety grass, and surrounded 
by solemn convent walls which can only be 
guessed at through the curtain of green. Once 
in a while the big black cat of our rosy concierge 
prowls about with stealthy step, sinister audience 
at the concert of birds, or a soft-robed sister 
walks gently up and down the paths with bowed 
head counting her beads, not seeing the glory 
about her. This was the way the garden looked 
to me the first time I saw it, and I turned from 
the salon with a sigh of regret when Alphonsine 
said. 



22 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

" Would Mademoiselle like to go to her room 
before Madame returns ? " 

I feared to leave these windows lest I be con- 
signed to a room on the court, where cobble 
stones would be the only bit of nature I should 
have to contemplate. 

So I followed Alphonsine reluctantly, but she 
went across the salon to where a silk embroid- 
ered drapery hung richly from the ceiling to the 
floor. Slipping her hand behind it she touched 
something that made the door open, and passing 
through a thick wall and another door we found 
ourselves in my room. Oh joy! its one big win- 
dow opened into the same garden : and so gladly 
did I hurry to see if I had really the same view 
that I failed to notice the wonderful old mahog- 
any, the quaint prints, and the door opening into 
the tiny little bedroom beyond. 

And each day when I come in from the life of 
outside I experience the same feeling of surprise, 
the same delicious sense of intimacy. I know 
now the heart of the old house. I shall never 
be repelled or frightened by its grim street aspect, 
for I know what is hidden from the casual passer- 
by. And when I see the anxious eager crowds 
in the cumbered street, when I hear their bar- 



THE GRAY HOUSE 23 

gaining and bickering, I hurry past them, secretly 
exulting, for there is something awaiting me of 
which they know nothing. Perhaps some of 
them may have little hidden gardens, too, and I 
scan the faces of those I meet to see if I can 
notice any traces of a joyous secret like mine. 
But I hurry on, for I am eager to have the great 
green doors close upon me and shut out the 
others. 



II 

Visions 

npHEY do penetrate from time to time — 
•*- the others — but chiefly as thought phan- 
toms, and they take on a gentler aspect and a 
finer grace when they troop silently into the 
rooms with the windows that look out upon the 
quiet garden. And to-day these figures become 
elusive and melt into the soft mist of the rain, for 
they are the shadows of those who are gone. 

The Master's tall form is here breathing out 
the same joyous benignity that used to put the 
shyest at his ease. For two years he has been 
lying peacefully on the sloping hillside in the 
Normandy he loved so well, but his presence is 
still here, and I can see quite plainly his hand- 
some head with its silver hair, his beautiful brown 
eyes, his straight sensitive nose, the smiling 
mouth forming words of welcome. And I can 
see him again as he enters his lecture room in 
the sudden hush of respectful attention. Schol- 
ars and students from many lands gathered year 
after year to hear the Master, and to take down 

24 



VISIONS 25 

with anxious precision notes of the fruits of his 
marvellous scholarship. 

I trust they have not all forgotten, as have 
I, the different branches of Le Couronnement 
de Louis and why the Charroi de Ntmes is con- 
sidered a sort of bridge between two other epics 
which have nothing to do with each other. But 
I feel sure that if they have forgotten all the 
variants and the manuscripts A, B, C, and D, 
they still remember vividly the life with which 
he animated those old poems, and how the 
heroes of a by-gone age moved again under 
the magic touch of his patriotic eloquence. 
Charlemagne and Guillaume and Roland were no 
longer dead. We were thrilled as by an actual 
drama when the Master read us of the mighty 
Guillaume returning to Orange clad in Saracen 
armor, how the old porter, taking him for an 
enemy, stubbornly refused him entrance, and then 
how Ghibour in all her womanly loveliness ap- 
peared, and how the warrior swore a great oath 
that never should he rest on couch or soothe his 
limbs with water until he had pressed a kiss on 
Ghibour's lips. 

When he told the beautiful legend of Charle- 
magne beginning, " Quand il etaif mort, le grand 



26 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

roi aux cheveaux blancs/' the Master's vibrant 
voice gave a new meaning to the strong old 
French words. We saw the dead king carried, 
not lying prone upon a bier, but sitting proudly 
upright on a golden throne, the four Evangelists 
at his feet. And thus he was borne to his own 
cathedral at Aix, where he sits unvanquished, 
waiting again to take up arms against the un- 
believer and the foes of his dear France. 

Ah Master! you too are still enthroned within 
the hearts of all those who learned from you a 
little of the noble passion of high scholarship, 
and your clear strong spirit, from this throne of 
golden memories, is still battling for the truth, 
and for the France you loved so well. 

Then comes the Critic's face, keen, sharp-cut 
features, eyes that peer through glasses, a neutral 
complexion, a nervous quick manner. When he 
spoke, his sentences came in measured elegant 
fashion, in strong contrast to his manner. With 
what pitiless clearness he attacked a subject, how 
cleanly he disposed of it all, neatly done up in its 
proper parcel and labelled ready to be pigeon- 
holed. And then his form passes on into the 
mist. 

The Lecturer follows him, and I see a bulky 



VISIONS 27 

outline, a large fair head and bearded face. He 
is always inseparable from his audience; and so 
I see him, as he steps out from the little door 
near the platform, silk hat in one hand, leather 
serviette under his arm. He acknowledges the 
applause from the crowded amphitheatre with 
a slight bow, sits down behind his desk, draws off 
his yellow kid gloves, smooths them out carefully, 
stirs the lump of sugar in his glass, opens his 
serviette, arranges his notes, stirs his sugar and 
water again, and finally begins, " Mesdames et 
Messieurs . . ." His elegant sentences flow 
unceasingly, he builds up a perfect structure, in 
which the heavy erudition is lightened here and 
there by a sparkling bit of wit, a satiric remark, 
a phrase with double meaning, given with the 
merest lift of an eyebrow and received with men- 
tal smacking of the lips by the attentive audience. 
But he, too, passes into the mist, and others 
come one after the other until they fill the gar- 
den with their shadows and the mist grows 
deeper and I should soon become helplessly 
melancholy did not Lucien, the irreproachable 
butler, come in to say that dinner would be served 
in half an hour. 



Ill 

Realities 

QO full was my mind of visions that I fear the 
*^ first dinner among old friends would have 
been a failure had not Philippe appeared, and 
Philippe always brings with him an atmosphere 
of joyousness. He is very tall. He tells me he 
is nearly two meters high, but that means nothing 
to me. I know that he is over six feet and that 
he carries his tall frame with a graceful uncon- 
sciousness that is altogether charming. His curl- 
ing brown hair is very abundant, his cheeks look 
always as though he had come in out of a crisp 
wind, and his brown eyes have a joyous twinkle. 
When dinner is announced he gallantly offers 
his arm to la petite grand' mere, but she chides 
him and tells him his duty is to me. So we walk 
out with much gayety and sit down at the 
candle-lit table. The sweet Hostess is ever the 
presiding genius, but it is grand'mere who is very 
brilliant to-night and her well-turned phrases, 
pointed with a bit of irony once in a while, serve 
as a sauce piquante for every course. Her sister, 

28 



REALITIES 29 

tante Placide sits beside her, sweetly benign and 
gentle. She eats her soft-boiled ^gg and her 
curdled cream with resignation, while delectable 
viands are consumed by the rest of us. 

Just as we were at the second course the Patriot 
came in. Being a Pole, he cannot help being a 
patriot and revolutionary, and so he never comes 
just at the appointed or expected time. But this 
is a matter of such entire indifference to him 
whose mind is so full of great things, that we 
are ashamed to feel annoyed at all absence of 
apology from him. Quite simply he takes the 
place hastily prepared for him and in a perfectly 
matter of course way dominates the conversation. 
He talks about himself. One is usually eloquent 
but not always pleasing when on this subject, but 
the Patriot has a detached way of considering 
himself as an instrument, a powerful one to be 
sure, that divests his conversation of all com- 
placency. But alas; the entire absence of any 
visible linen about his person, his soft shapeless 
clothes, his coarse shoes, the incessant stream of 
his conversation, begin to have an effect on la 
petite grand'mere. His insurrection against con- 
vention irrirates her, his frank speech shocks her, 
she who speaks as they did in the grand salons 



30 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

of the last century, for whom conversation is an 
artistic combination of words and graceful 
phrases which allow one to divine the sense be- 
neath, if one can disentangle oneself from the 
bewildering beauty of the lace-like expression. 
No matter how commonplace the subject, grand' - 
mere always dresses it up, giving a dainty touch 
there, a bit of color here ; sometimes maliciously 
knocking the hat on one side or leaving a mirth- 
provoking gap, but always making a work of art 
of the poorest, thinnest sentiment. 

And so, the Patriot's directness ruffles her and 
she is sometimes guilty of cutting him off quite 
shortly by suddenly becoming deeply absorbed in 
the menu and addressing a remark to the attentive 
butler, which completely unhinges the conversa- 
tion for the moment. But the Patriot waits and 
then without the least shade of annoyance, — I 
doubt indeed if he has noticed the little feminine 
device, — goes on imperturbably. 

Once, in the course of his monologue, he re- 
marked — no, not remarked, for he says noth- 
ing without a certain air of sincerity and gravity 
which raises everything into the realm of asser- 
tions — he asserted then, that he was very fond 
of his daughters. To which unusual sentiment 



REALITIES 31 

grand'mkre made one of her charmingly involved 
replies, implying that it was a feeling one was 
not utterly surprised to discover in a father's 
breast. The Patriot looked at her a while with 
serious eyes and said in his grave sweet voice: 

" But I disagree with you, Madame ; I think it 
is most surprising. I have indeed a large heart 
when I can love my country as I do, and hu- 
manity also, and yet find a place there to love 
my three daughters." For the time being grand'- 
mere was vanquished and retired from the field 
scandalized, but in good order. 

And through it all tante Placide smiles gently 
and says very little save a mild mais, ma soeur! 
once in a while to her vivacious elder sister. But 
though she says nothing now, nor much more 
through the evening, which is punctuated by fra- 
grant black coffee, bridge, and the ten o'clock tea, 
her gentle presence is more impressive than the 
vivacity of the rest. Her delicate skin flushes 
to the softest pink, her fine-cut high bred features 
look like an old miniature and her lovely white 
hair wooes one to love winter. 

Philippe comes beside me and talks to me in 
low eager tones of his ambitions. He is now 
reading law, but he is not at all sure that he 



32 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

wishes to make this his career. His music is 
dear to him, but there are so many people with 
talent ! He would like, most of all, some employ- 
ment, light, and not too exacting, which would 
assure him respectability and a living, and which 
would permit him to devote most of his time to 
writing, for he thinks, bless his dear enthusiastic 
soul, that he has a message to deliver to the 
world, a message on Pascal and other worthies 
of Port Royal! He thinks he has discovered 
something that has not yet been said, and his 
eyes shine with the same fire as light up those of 
his transatlantic brother when he talks of hunting 
big game, or of a fortunate deal in stocks. And I 
look at Philippe's splendid athletic frame and his 
handsome face and wonder if it is education and 
environment alone which make him so different. 

When the good nights have been said and the 
guests are gone we sit for a while in the soft 
lamplight and talk of those who will never meet 
with us again. There are, alas, so many! But 
as we talk our hearts begin to glow with a 
warmth that comes from that land where our 
loved ones are, and as we leave each other the 
yearning and the heartache are soothed. 

In the starlit beauty of the quiet night my gar- 



REALITIES 33 

den is unique, sufficient. As I sit and dream at 
my window the shadow people come once more 
and I hear again the faint echo of a bird's song. 

I sat within the quiet garden of my soul, 
With body weak and heart that beat 
afraid. 
Still trembling from the dread defeat that 
shut me from the world, 
And groping for a pallid hope that fled 
dismayed. 

A fear fell on me and an awful dread. 

I lifted longing arms for those without. 
I yearned to gaze into clear shallows of a 
human love. 
I prayed to feel again the passion and the 
doubt. 

Then from the coolness and the silence of 

the place, 
A wondrous calm and sweetness o'er me 

stole, 
A truth triumphant thrilled my fainting 

heart with sudden life; 
" Within thyself thou hast wherewith to 

reach the goal." 



34 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

I rose upright within the garden of my soul. 

Its heavy doors shut out the careless 

throng. 

Its winding paths were peopled with soft 

shadows of my thoughts. 

Its leafy arches echoed my unspoken song. 

And the garden is unique, sufficient. 




IV 

Action 

TT FARMER days have come and my garden 
is more of a joy than ever. Yesterday 
morning, very early, a gardener appeared. He 
was here before the stars had quite faded from 
the sky and as the slow dawn came, it seemed, at 
first, in the cool dimness, that they had slipped 
from their places and fallen softly down into my 
garden, for here and there were faint gleams and 
spots. When the light grew stronger I saw that 
I was mistaken and that what had seemed fallen 
stars were white tulips. When the gardener was 
quite through I saw that he had also planted 
quantities of blue forget-me-nots, pink geraniums 
and other bright-colored flowers, so that the 

35 



36 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

green of grass, bushes, and trees was dashed with 
brilHant color. To the songs of birds is now 
added the hum of insects and every day the 
orchestra gains in power and expression. There 
is a constant humming and twittering which fur- 
nishes the musical background and every now 
and then the clear soaring note of a merle arises 
in a glorious solo. I have looked, in vain, among 
the branches for this singer. His voice is so 
piercingly sweet and it rises and falls with such 
artistic cadences, now mingling in the general 
chorus, now exulting high above it, that I am 
sure he is a wonderful virtuoso. But no matter 
how wild the melody, there is one ever-recurrent 
air, a minor strain that haunts one long after- 
wards. Other notes ring out from other throats 
like flashes of color. So the garden with its 
mass of green and with its glints of bright flow- 
ers forms with the music a perfect symphony of 
color and sound. 

There is something in the morning, in the 
freshness of the spring air that impels one to 
work and to activity. Even into the calm of the 
garden have come the flutterings of new life. Is 
it because the convent walls are not thick enough 
to shut out the restless energy of the streets, or 
is it the heart of my garden itself that feels the 



ACTION 37 

stirring of youth, the renewing of life, the yearn- 
ing for action? Whatever it may be, some in- 
fluence detaches itself from the garden and the 
city outside calls with an insistence that cannot 
be unheeded. It is the call to work, to joy, to 
anything: provided one may have the glad sense 
of movement. And so, I turn away and go down 
the winding stairs, across the paved court, smile 
half apologetically to the rosy-cheeked concierge, 
open the great green doors and as they swing 
back, and shut me out on the street, palpitating 
with life, I hesitate a moment then, exultingly, 
become one of the multitude. 

Shall it be work or glad abandonment to pleas- 
ure? The quaint narrow Rue des Saints Peres 
beckons me toward the river, a street so narrow 
that it seems impossible for two cabs to pass each 
other, much less two monstrous autobus (or is 
the plural autobi?) that loom up gigantic in their 
two-storied height. If I go that way I shall soon 
reach the Seine and then I shall cross over on 
the Pont Royal, stopping for a moment to look 
up the river at the twin towers of Notre Dame 
and the tall splendid spire of La Sainte Chapelle. 
They are beautiful in rain or fog, in sunshine or 
in the gray twilight of evening. Then I shall go 
on my inevitable way to the old palace of that 



S8 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

great Cardinal who moulded kings and made 
them do his pleasure. He was a ruler of kings, 
but his unsatisfied ambition was always to be a 
maker of books. It is fitting, then, that Riche- 
lieu's great palace now holds more books than 
it is possible to count, and that, day after day, 
would-be makers of books sit beneath the great 
ornate dome of the National Library, where his 
marble statue looks down upon them with a 
pleased smile, tinged with a bit of envy. 

But the day is too full of sparkle for one wil- 
fully to shut oneself away from the brightness, 
and if the sunshine is so glorious here, what must 
it be out beyond the city fortifications ? Obeying a 
sudden impulse, I hail a cabman with the sibilant 
impelling call of psst! which goes much further 
and reaches much duller ears than could our 
hearty open " hey there ! " He stops, adjusts his 
taximeter and off we go to the Gare de Lyon, for 
a vision of Fontainebleau suddenly projected 
upon my wavering mind has brought me to a 
quick decision. 

The introduction of taximeters on the cabs has 
robbed me of all joy in driving. I can no longer 
see anything but that inexorable warming pan 
staring me in the face. I wait with an anxiety 
which becomes anguish for the warming pan to 



ACTION S9 

click and with an evil wink slip another figure 
into place. The first figure indicating 75 centimes 
lasts a satisfactory length of time, but it is simply- 
awful to witness the vulgar haste with which 95 
follows fast on the heels of 85. The deepest 
agony, however, is at the last. You feel that 
you will safely arrive with the indicator pointing 
to one franc fifteen centimes. You get out your 
purse, select the proper coin, decide upon an ade- 
quate pour hoire and then, just as you stop, the 
wretched warming pan gives one more wicked 
click and you find yourself financially responsible 
for two cents more. The taximeter may be a 
great convenience, but I consider it utterly de- 
moralizing and its baleful psychological influence 
will doubtless be realized when we see the parsi- 
mony of the next generation. 

The fat old cabman whips his thin horse 
mechanically and at perfectly regular intervals, 
all of which seems to accelerate his speed not at 
all, but nevertheless we arrive fifteen minutes 
before train time. It is well, for a large delega- 
tion of prosperous-looking Britons are going by 
the same train. The compartments all seem to 
be full, at least each door is guarded by a rather 
belligerent looking person whom I dare not brave. 
As I walk along the aisle I reach one compart- 



40 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

ment where a benevolent old gentleman is stand- 
ing. To my inquiry he replies in very bad 
French, but with a kindly accent, '' Oui, oui, deux 
places ici/' I step in, although why he should 
think I need two places is a question I prefer to 
leave unanswered. As I move in, a very stout 
lady, apparently the only occupant of the six 
seats, and evidently the benevolent party's wife, 
leans forward anxiously, and in a voice that 
makes her fringe vibrate says, '' Occupe, occupef' 
Not wishing to make further trouble in what 
seems to be an already divided family, at least as 
far as I am concerned, I retire and pass on. I 
find shelter in another compartment where the 
occupants seem to be less conservative. There 
are four persons, each installed in a corner, leav- 
ing the uncomfortable middle seats for late 
comers. They talk freely and easily across to 
each other, so this arrangement has its advan- 
tages, for their fellow travellers, who can thus 
cull precious bits of conversation. These four are 
evidently husbands and wives, the men broad- 
shouldered and good-looking, the women excess- 
ively plain and dressed in curious costumes that 
seem to be composed of after thoughts. One of 
them wears a thin, flimsy China silk bodice, very 
much trimmed with quantities of cheap lace, the 



ACTION 41 

wide spacing of whose buttons and buttonholes 
testifies as to its ready-made origin ; a very heavy 
skirt of coarse blue serge which shows a stub- 
born reluctance to join its existence with that of 
the frivolous-looking waist, leaving, as a conse- 
quence, a yawning gap between them, which the 
shining belt very stiffly refuses to span. Add 
to this, tan shoes at one extremity, and at the 
other a large mushroom hat of dark red straw 
trimmed with cherries and an immense bow of 
red ribbon of a tint skilfully selected so as just 
not to harmonize with the rest of the structure. 
The other lady is a discord in blue, whose dis- 
tinguishing article of apparel is a checked flannel 
bodice liberally trimmed with diaphanous net- 
ting. 

However, let us not trust to appearances. 
They are doubtless cultured people, although I 
hear snatches of conversation which do not lead 
unavoidably to this conclusion; but even conver- 
.sation should not condemn a man. One husband 
who is deep in a local English newspaper sud- 
denly exclaims : " I say, Hawarden is dead." 
His wife looks up and with admirably controlled 
emotion says : " Oh really ! what a pity. He 
used to jump over the table without touching a 
dish." 



42 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

Eloquent epitaph this. I do not know whether 
this was an ordinary prandial feat, whether 
Hawarden did this at home, at every meal, or 
whether he reserved it for his guests. But the 
brief w^ords spoke volumes and presented poor 
Hawarden to me as no funeral oration could 
have done. I saw him, genial, kindly, agile, ready 
to sacrifice himself for his family, for his friends, 
performing faithfully this little duty, never 
weary, never breaking down. And each time he 
tried it Mrs. Hawarden, in true wifely wise, 
would protest, implore, even scold. " Morti- 
mer " ; his name must have been Mortimer ; 
" Mortimer, dear, I must beg of you for the sake 
of the children, if not for your own sake, to 
desist from this." And the children would howl 
with delight and Hawarden, poor dead Hawar- 
den, would fix his hands firmly on the table be- 
tween the gravy boat and the boiled potatoes and, 
rising lightly, would leap over the boiled mutton 
and come down surely and firmly on the other 
side. Sometimes perhaps . . . — but no, I 
shall not malign the dead hero by any base sup- 
positions. Let us leave him with this simple 
inscription uttered by a friend, in a foreign land, 
and falling upon sympathetic ears. 



V 

The Heart of the City 

^T^HUS pleasantly dreaming of unknown 
•^ heroes, the time passes rapidly, and Fon- 
tainebleau is reached. I soon find two good 
friends and together we drive all morning over 
the grandes routes and the green aisles of the old 
forest. Sometimes we wander down by-paths 
into harmless gorges with fearful names, where 
the rocks are green with moss and the trees shut 
out the yellow light, letting in a soft cool green 
glimmer. And shall we ever forget the little 
village of Marlotte, full of blessed artist memo- 
ries, but disfigured as are so many French vil- 
lages now, by the hideous villas springing up 
impertinently and flaunting their gaudy colors 
and graceless architecture in the face of monu- 
ments which have become classic? 

We drive through winding narrow streets to 
the principal hotel of the village. Immediately 
we feel that we are in the domain of an original 
genius. The proprietor of the hostelry is evi- 
dently a pushing man possessed of commercial 

43 



44 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

instincts which clothe, rather fantastically, an 
artistic soul. The place runs to blue; all the 
balconies and windows are painted a vivid blue, 
and the personality of the owner breaks out at 
unexpected intervals in great blue letters Paul 
Mallot, Ptr. 

As we descend from the carriage, a fat waiter 
with a dirty white apron fitting smoothly over his 
rotund form advances and demands if Monsieur 
and Mesdames will not enter the garden. We 
assent and are conducted through the paved 
court, on beyond into an azure landscape where 
there are so many and so varied features that we 
are dazed, and fail to receive any general impres- 
sion except that of color. The atmosphere seems 
to have suddenly become blue; the fagade had 
been but the merest hint of the cerulean depths 
into which we now are plunged. The little iron 
tables and chairs are a vivid blue. There are 
gas fixtures painted blue, attached to pillars 
painted blue. The trees seem to have been 
struck with blue lightning, for there is a sinuous 
blue line winding around the trunk of each, ter- 
minating in an electric button. The china is 
blue. Near one of the blue tables is a sad look- 
ing monkey, tugging at his chain, and he seems 



46 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

blue, too. In the centre of the garden is a huge 
blue canvas umbrella which concentrates the color 
into a blueness of indigo. As a relief from this 
we note that there are, encircling the garden, a 
number of little kiosks evidently designed for the 
customers of exclusive taste, and whose thatched 
roofs pleasantly suggest the unconventionality of 
Hottentot society. We also notice that our host 
is something of an epicure who doubtless inherits 
his taste for luxury from some old Roman sybar- 
ite ancestor, for, opening out into the garden in a 
most conspicious spot is a modern bath room still 
shining in all the whiteness of new porcelain. The 
door is left open with an air of easy careless os- 
tentation befitting the proprietor of the only like 
luxury in the village. It is doubtless a great at- 
traction, only, the question will obtrude itself on 
a practical mind, who uses it, and when? Per- 
haps it is too sacred to be used, perhaps it is a 
monument erected in bitter jest to some famous 
artist habitue of the place. We shall probably 
never know. 

We order lemonade to be made with lemons 
and our fat waiter, proud of the resources of the 
house, brings us some shrivelled fruit and pre- 
pares the drink before our eyes, conversing amia- 



THE CITY '47 

bly the while of his little world: how business 
fell off lamentably at Pentecost because of the 
cold ; how, despite continued rains the patron had 
nevertheless prospered sufficiently to buy a pretty 
bit of ground adjoining, which made a helle 
promenade ; and would we not take a glimpse of 
it before we left? 

We drove slowly back through the forest, our 
horses moving with measured dignity, so that we 
could see every passing glade, every green aisle, 
and every majestic tree. We felt unutterable 
scorn for the automobiles that dashed past, from 
time to time, like maddened buzzing insects try- 
ing to pass through a window pane. What could 
their occupants see of all this beauty ? 

My train hurried me back to the city through 
the forests and the well-kept fields, past trim little 
villages, which in France, never seem to have any 
back yards, and where you can never come early 
enough to surprise them in curl papers or in des- 
habille. As we neared the city we swept by mar- 
ket gardens set with such geometrical precision 
that they looked like huge colored kindergarten 
mats, where men and women were using the last 
precious hours of daylight in bending over the 
plants with anxious care. 



48 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

Often when we have been away for a few 
hours from a temporary home we feel upon our 
return to it a warm glow of affection, a reflec- 
tion of that deeper emotion we have when we 
go back to our real home. Something of this I 
felt when our screaming little locomotive steamed 
noisily into the station. Before the train stopped, 
compartment doors opened and eager home-goers 
were standing ready to step out as soon as the 
wheels would stop turning. Then came the rush 
for the exits, the cries of porters, the happy 
laughter of meeting friends, and then the quick 
dispersion in a hundred different directions of 
those whom the accident of travel had housed 
together for a few brief hours. 

I hailed a cab and while waiting for it to drive 
up across the cobble-stoned place to the curb, my 
attention was attracted to a group of travellers 
who had evidently just arrived by one of the 
grandes lignes. They were discussing, in the 
unamiable way characteristic of tired tourists, the 
best place to go for the night and there seemed 
to be as many minds as persons. Their faces 
wore an expression of fretful uncertainty and, 
had not a man from Cook's appeared to them at 
the same time that my cabby drew up before me. 



THE CITY 49 

I should have ventured to help them with my 
small stock of experience. As it was, I had a 
sense of warm comfort as I gave my number to 
the driver and a picture of what the number 
meant to me banished unpleasant images of hos- 
telries with their restless occupants. Others 
might go to the gay hotels of the boulevards or 
the fashionable pensions of the avenues where 
they could see the gayety and feel the brilliancy 
of the surface of this gayest and most brilliant of 
cities, but I was going to the very heart of Paris, 
to the House of the Garden, where in the quiet, 
behind protecting walls, was hidden the real life 
of the great city. 

As we rattled along over the paved streets I 
found myself guessing how many of the houses 
we passed hid behind their monotonous fronts 
some bit of greenness, some cool place where trees 
grew tall and where the grass was not whitened 
by the dust of the streets. And I thought that 
unless one knew just such a place, one had not 
entered into an understanding of the real mind 
of the most polished and yet most simple of 
people. 




Tante Placide 



A yf Y reflections came to an end with a jolt, for 
-*■-*- we had arrived at the green doors that 
shut out the deepening darkness. While going 
up the stairs I heard voices coming down to me, 
sounds of laughter and gayety. The doors had 
been thrown open to let in the warm spring air 
and the family were all assembled at the table. 
When I entered the dining room with apologies 
for my lateness on my lips, I was met with a 
chorus of greetings. The Patriot was there and 
he rose gallantly to help me to my place. La 
'petite grand'mere insisted that I should tell my 
adventures ; Germaine wanted to know if I had 
gone into the caves, and the gentle Hostess won- 
dered if I were not very tired. They all said they 



50 



TANTE PLACIDE 51 

were glad I had come back in time to get some 
vol-au-vent, for they did not often indulge in this 
bourgeois delicacy. When I told about the 
English people on the train the Patriot listened 
with serious courtesy and when I finished, made 
some profound observations on the subject of 
British characteristics, implying that my ideas of 
Mortimer's lightness were in opposition to all 
well-known English traits. He cited at length 
some of his own experiences which proved con- 
clusively that no Englishman would be capable 
of performing any such feats as my fertile and 
now discredited imagination ascribed to the late 
Mr. Hawarden. 

The Patriot is very serious. I suppose he has 
to be when he has an enslaved country constantly 
on his mind. It must be a very heavy responsi- 
bility, especially as the work of liberation and 
regeneration is apparently to be largely brought 
about by his efforts. 

When dinner was over he begged to be ex- 
cused as he was to deliver a lecture on Polish 
freedom before a Catholic school. The rest of 
us went into a salon which to-night was to be 
the scene of busy activity for we were all to 
knit woollen petticoats for the villagers near the 
chateau. The gentle Hostess and la petite grand'- 



52 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

mere take great pride in making up the wool from 
their own flocks into warm winter clothes for the 
very old and the very young. So, through the 
winter evenings, they weave into their work 
memories of the golden summer time, of the 
chateau with its flower-filled moat, of the sturdy 
village folk, and of the green hills and valleys of 
Normandy. 

Germaine begged that la petite grand'mere 
would read aloud while our busy needles clicked 
and we elected " Pickwick Papers," in French of 
course. La petite grand' mere reads with won- 
derful dramatic expression as she sits upright in 
her straight-backed arm chair. To me there is 
peculiar humor in the thought of the irrepressible 
Samuel expressing himself in the elegant gallic 
tongue while Mr. Pickwick's solid phrases assume 
a sudden distinction which would have delighted 
the soul of a gentleman of his keen sensibilities. 
Germaine thinks that Samuel's wonderful similes 
are the cream of wit and laughs so hard that she 
has to stop her knitting. Xante Placide smiles 
benignly but her expression denotes a lack of 
sympathetic comprehension of these very eccen- 
tric persons, who are forever getting into painful 
situations. 

After a while Alphonsine comes to announce 



TANTE P LAC IDE 5S 

that it is time for Mademoiselle Germaine to re- 
tire and after reluctant goodnights have been said 
la petite grand'mere and tante Placide fall to 
discussing feminine nature, apropos of a care- 
burdened relative. I have become so absorbed 
in the intricacies of a new stitch which the gentle 
Hostess is teaching me that I hear nothing until 
a clear-cut phrase from la petite grand'mere 
arrests my attention. She is saying, 

" But my dear sister, all women are Eves and 
all of us, however much we may protest, would 
have eaten the apple, and for various reasons. 
Some, because we are greedy; some, because we 
are ambitious; some, because we are merely 
curious ; some, because we are reckless ; some, be- 
cause we are thoughtless; and some because we 
want to have something to worry about after- 
wards." 

Pretty tante Placide listened with silent admira- 
tion to her clever sister, but shook her head gently 
and protestingly to signify that she had her own 
opinion about Eve and the apple. Tante Placide 
has no mind for discussions. She is the kind of 
woman whom men adore and other women love. 
The other day, when we celebrated her fete she 
had letters and visits from hosts of friends. She 
receives homage with a sweet air of youthful 



54 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

surprise and pleasure as though she were experi- 
encing the sensation for the first time. She is 
possessed of a certain spring-like charm that 
never developed into the warm sensuous summer, 
nor can autumn's frost or winter's cold ever 
wither it. One of her ardent admirers, an elderly 
Englishman who crosses the Channel so often 
that he is sometimes uncertain on which side he 
is, sent her a poem on her fete which pleased her 
infinitely. I notice that she keeps it in her work 
basket and to-night I ask her if I might not re- 
read it to her. It is written in English and I 
craftily suggest that she ought to hear me read 
it aloud for the sake of cultivating her pronuncia- 
tion. It is addressed thus: 

Lines to the Countess Placide on Her Best 

Birthday 

(With apologies to Austin Dohson) 

Her fine benignant face 

Old Time has touched with tender grace, 

Just leaving there a lingering trace 

Of joy and sorrow. 
The secret of that winsome smile. 
Which from some god she did beguile. 

We fain would borrow. 



TANTE PLACIDE 55 

The winters of the years, 

Have never chilled her heart with fears; 

And of their passage naught appears, 

Save snow white tresses: 
For summer lingers in her heart, 
And hides her years with such an art 

That no one guesses. 

She has a charm that grows, 

And from her lovely presence flows, 

The holy peace and calm repose 

Of gentle leisure. 
Oh teach us then the sinless crime 
Of how we, too, may cheat old Time 

Of his one pleasure! 

As I read, carefully enunciating my words, a 
far away look came into tante Placide's eyes and 
I wonder if the secret is buried in her heart, to- 
gether with the memory of the brave young 
Count whose life was sacrificed with so many 
others in the fearful blunder of Sedan. Perhaps 
she is keeping young for him. 

x\fter the good-nights have been said and I 
have gone to my room, I fling wide open the win- 
dows which Alphonsine has carefully closed lest a 
deadly c our ant d'air might harm me. The per- 



56 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

fume of sleepy flowers, wet with the night dews, 
rises in the air, a bird stirs uneasily, and, as I 
look up int'O the starry sky, I wonder idly if the 
Count was tall and strong and handsome, like 
Philippe,, -^Pr instance. 




VII 

The Vanity of Learning 

THE morning was very still and the notes of 
the merle sounded more clearly than usual. 
He woke me at a very early hour and I resented it 
until I looked from my window and saw what 
he saw. No wonder he wanted to arouse all 
sluggards, for the sun had not yet risen high 
enough to peep over the convent walls on the 
other side, and while the sky was a brilliant hot 
blue the garden still lay like a cool, dark green 
pool, encircled by gray hills. Everything pro- 
claimed a hot day and I hastened to dress and 
go down into the garden, so that I might have a 
taste of its freshness and coolness before the 
heat of noon came on. 

57^ 



58 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

Alphonsine with quick divination asked if 
Mademoiselle would not have her coffee 
in the garden with Mademoiselle Germaine. 
Nothing could be more perfect. Germaine 
is fourteen, black-eyed, black-haired. She 
regards her mother, my gentle hostess, with 
adoration, and between her and la petite grand'- 
mere there exists a comradeship that laughs at 
years and defies any possible dissolution. Ger- 
maine is intensely patriotic and a hero-wor- 
shipper. She takes an affectionate interest in 
Americans because they have made a hero of a 
Frenchman, and since Lafayette is a loved name 
across the seas, she has admitted the name of 
Washington into her exclusive Hall of Fame. 
She is just now studying American History and 
she asks me many questions which I ought to be 
able to answer ; but my memory is imperfect. Be- 
sides, the beauty of the morning is very distract- 
ing. I suggest that we look for the merle who 
sings at times so triumphantly, and at times with 
such sadness. So we set about our quest and 
peer up into the tall trees, but fail to catch a 
glimpse of him. By following his song, how- 
ever, we become convinced that he is in the 
tallest tree, that grows up close to the convent 



VANITY OF LEARNING 59 

wall. There are some windows there, little 
narrow windows, from which, Germaine and I 
conclude, but a very small and misleading portion 
of the garden can be seen. And we are glad 
that we are free and that we can feel the melody 
that the merle is expressing for us. Just at this 
moment we see a white hand thrust out of one 
of the high windows, holding a cage which it 
hangs on a hook outside the edge. In the cage is 
a bird, our bird, whose songs have been such a 
joy to us. And now we know why some of his 
notes are sad. 

As I went away from the garden the world 
seemed a little out of joint; a cloud had come 
over the sunshine, a taste of bitterness flavored 
the perfect enjoyment of the day. When this 
happens to be the case, one notes events with a 
bit of unconscious cynicism, and this must have 
been my mood when I went toward the Sorbonne. 
I had promised myself the experience of hearing 
a candidate for the doctor's degree of philosophy 
defend his thesis and I had been told that this 
was to be a battle royal. 

The Salle du Doctorat in the Sorbonne is very 
beautiful, very dignified and very ornate. There 
is a richness and affluence of decoration about 



60 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

most of the public rooms which would make them 
seem vulgar anywhere else but in a nation where 
taste and a sense of proportion are inborn in- 
stincts. It is a rectangular room, very high and 
with full-length portraits about the walls of 
Richelieu, Corneille, Moliere, Pascal, and other 
dead and gone worthies who do not seem to feel 
in the least scandalized at each other's presence. 
Under the portrait of the great cardinal, at the 
end opposite the entrance, stands the desk of the 
judges. 

When I entered, the room was full of spec- 
tators, some attracted by interest in the candidate, 
others by interest in the judges, and others 
coming out of pure curiosity. There was an un- 
usual proportion of distinguished-looking gentle- 
men, a number of students, and some nondescript 
sort of people who seemed to have no other occu- 
pation than that of helping to vitiate the air in 
the lecture halls of the University, In front of 
me were two young women in the unconventional 
dress which marked them as belonging to the 
artist class. One of them had pretty Jewish 
features and wore an immense black hat set at a 
hazardous angle upon a mass of tumbled hair. 
The other had strong handsome features and 



VANITY OF LEARNING 61 

wore a small sailor hat perched upon smooth 
yellow coils. They were busy sketching types 
and soon, having exhausted models from one 
point of vantage, they fell into an animated dis- 
cussion, the result of which was that they rose 
and changed their places with a charming dis- 
regard of the disturbance they caused. They 
crossed the aisle and made several people rise 
in order to pass in to some vacant seats well in 
the centre. Later I heard a shuffling of feet and 
saw them change their point of view again. 
However, no one seemed to be annoyed. It 
was a delightful illustration of the national device 
liberie, egalite, fraternite. 

As I looked over the crowded room I wondered 
to myself with an inward chuckle how many 
distinguished citizens of New York or Chicago 
would be tempted to attend the examinations for 
Doctor of Philosophy in their respectively neigh- 
boring universities. 

The candidate was already on the grill and 
his misery was not lessened by the presence of all 
his relatives. In the rows nearest him, painfully 
reminiscent of chief mourners, were his wife, 
his son, his mother and father, her mother and 
father, and so on to cousins four times removed. 



62 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

The deceased, — I should say, the candidate, — 
was seated with his back to the audience and 
looking up to, and facing, his judges, three 
doughty champions of letters in the Faculty of 
the Sorbonne. Judge number one began by 
asking the candidate to give a short outline of 
his thesis. The thesis lay like a huge bone of 
contention on the table between those who were 
to attack it and him who was to defend it. It 
was a bulky volume of a formidable air but its 
creator and compiler disposed of it in about 
fifteen minutes in a clear, definite, and very com- 
prehensive analysis. He was a thin consumptive- 
looking man with an exaggeratedly nervous 
manner. He kept violently stirring his sugar and 
water, clicking the spoon against the glass, sipping 
from it feverishly, and every now and then turn- 
ing around to cast a resentful, baleful glance upon 
the phalanx of relatives. 

When he had finished his exposition, the first 
judge complimented him delicately and at length 
on his outline and then on the book in general. 
In this way he was able to show the audience 
that he was as thoroughly familiar with the thesis 
as was the author himself. This was the first 
skirmish, perfectly harmless, perfectly polite and 



VANITY OF LEARNING 63 

agreeable. But, having administered the sugar, 
he began to administer the medicine. He had 
noticed here and there, nothing very grave to be 
sure, but he wondered if, in the title to chapter 
so and so, the candidate had not been a trifle care- 
less in using a certain term which, — perhaps 
after all he was entirely mistaken, — but would 
the candidate have the excessive amiability to 
explain and define a little more clearly what he 
meant by such and such an expression? The 
candidate, feverish and eager, was already 
gesticulating before the judge's delicate rapier 
stroke had reached him, and the two voices rose 
in a duo that thoroughly confused and delighted 
the audience, but seemed to disturb neither of the 
principals in the combat. And this went on for 
over an hour. The judge, thrusting, now mock- 
ingly, now laughingly, but always with infinite 
grace, while the candidate parried the strokes 
and lunged back, nearly always effectively, but 
feverishly, noisily, with many gesticulations. 
Only once or twice did he acknowledge the justice 
of a criticism, as when the judge said with bland 
politeness : 

" May I ask, not with impertinence, not 
from idle curiosity, but from an intense de- 



64 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

sire to know, why you use four times, first on 
page fifty-six, again on page one hundred and 
five, then on page three hundred and sixty-four, 
and still again on page five hundred and three, 
such and such a term ? " 

And the candidate let his features relax for 
the first time and laughed as he ingenuously 
answered — "I have n't the least idea." 

When the first inquisitor was through, the 
second one took up the subject. His attack was 
a little heavier; there were not so many compli- 
ments bestowed ; there was less of the rapier and 
more of the broadsword. He criticised the form 
of the thesis and cited illogical conclusions and 
contradictory statements which the candidate 
was asked to reconstruct and then not given 
time to do. 

The third inquisitor was a handsome, self- 
satisfied looking person, who took solid comfort 
in referring to his own works and citing passages 
therefrom. Being much more absorbed in show- 
ing his own armor, he made little effort to thrust 
at the battered breastplate of the victim. After 
hours of this intellectual tilting the ordeal was 
over, the candidate was declared successful, his 



VANITY OF LEARNING 65 

book pronounced a classic and he was congratu- 
lated by all his judges. 

He turns from the judicial bench and faces his 
relatives, who crowd around him, his wife a 
little flushed and trembling. His tall son kisses 
him impulsively on either cheek, and when his 
little old mother, clad in black, comes up to him, 
he bends his head that she may kiss him on his 
brow. There is a great deal of nervous chatter- 
ing and excited gesturing and I go away wonder- 
ing what his feelings are. For nine years he has 
been bending all his energies to reach this goal, 
to obtain what every Frenchman with orthodox 
views on the educational system desires most 
earnestly. Now he has attained his ambition. 
I am told he will be appointed to a professorship 
in a provincial city. Banished from Paris ! No 
Frenchman who has once lived here can think 
of this with calm. For Paris is, in an extraordi- 
nary degree, the mecca of all literary and pro- 
fessional men, and they keep coming here while 
protesting to foreigners that the only way really 
to know and understand France is to go to the 
smallest towns and study the people who have 
been unspoiled by the life of the city. 




The Shadows in the Garden 



TN the House of the Garden we nearly always 
■*- have guests at dinner. The great green doors 
which close so quickly upon you when you go 
out into the street open hospitably to those who 
are bidden. At dinner, the evening after the 
examination at the Sorbonne, there were three 
guests. Monsieur and Madame Degas I knew 
well. He is a Normand, tall, well-built, with 
close-cropped white hair, rosy complexion and 
gray military moustache. He is one of these 
kindly, clever, good-hearted men whose nature 
belongs to no particular nation nor generation 
and whom every one likes quickly and sponta- 



66 



SHADOWS IN THE GARDEN 67 

neously. He is a professor in one of the lycees 
for boys and is perfectly content to remain a 
pedagogue the rest of his life. Indeed, he told 
me, with a merry twinkle in his eye, that he had 
learned now to take his gait like an old cab horse, 
and that nothing could ever induce him to do 
more than jog comfortably along. 

" What about the beatings," quoth I, " do you 
get used to them ? " 

"Ah, — I will tell you a secret," he replied. 
** They do not hurt once your hide is accustomed 
to them, and the hardening process is not so bad 
as you might think." 

Madame Degas is young, dark, and pic- 
turesque, somewhat emancipated in manner, full 
of all sorts of plans and schemes, from the sav- 
ing of chicken feathers for her winter hats, to 
the bringing up of children without the laying 
on of hands. Her husband listens to her with 
a kindly paternal air, tolerantly allows his three 
small boys to tyrannize over him, and patiently 
endures the frequently recurring uncomfortable 
periods when the house is servantless. 

The third guest is a stranger to me. When he 
is presented he makes such a profound bow that 
all I see is a bent head suffering from an indigence 



68 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

of natural covering. He is spare of figure and I 
get an impression of ill-fitting evening clothes. 
It is only when we are at dinner and I find him 
opposite me that I see his face. It is narrow, 
thin, and the very high forehead seems dis- 
proportionately large. His eyes are deep set and 
very brilliant, while his close-cropped whiskers 
half hide a nervous large mouth. He does not 
mingle much in the general conversation but when 
a question is addressed to him he answers it 
with a grave consideration and conscientiousness 
that is almost a reproach to the questioner. The 
conversation never lags for a moment after it 
is once in full swing. 

There is usually close attention to business 
during the soup course, but as soon as it is dis- 
posed of and a sip of wine has been taken, 
tongues are loosened and ideas flow. It has been 
interesting to me to note the subtle differences 
between social life in France and America, in 
circles who are interested in more or less the 
same things. In America women take the 
initiative not only in the organization of social 
functions but in conversation and entertaining. 
Mrs. Jones decides to give a dinner, she asks her 
husband if he will be free on such and such an 



SHADOWS IN THE GARDEN 69 

evening, she sends out her invitations, as often 
as not without consulting her husband. She 
plans to have an " entertainer " come in after 
dinner to relieve her guests from the responsi- 
bility of any great mental effort. At table the 
American man, tired v/ith a long day of business 
or professional activities, expects to be diverted 
by the talk of the lady next to him and he allows 
her to take the initiative. As a consequence, the 
conversation is seldom general and is very apt to 
turn to personal and trivial matters. In France 
the husband has more leisure and taste for social 
affairs. Very often he arranges the dinner, plans 
for the guests and, when the company is assem- 
bled, he leads in the conversation and all partici- 
pate in it. At table the men talk quite as much, 
if not more, than the women. They talk for the 
sake of being heard; they love to have an audi- 
ence; hence their conversation is more finished, 
and more stilted perhaps than ours. They have 
more elegance, we have more spontaneity; they 
are more improving, and we are more stimulat- 
ing. 

But I am forgetting our particular dinner and 
we have now reached the dessert. The subjects 
of talk have been many and varied. We began 



70 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

with a discussion of Paul Bourget's novel, 
" L'Emigre," which led to animated debate as to 
whether the English system of primogeniture 
was not the only one to preserve the best in a 
nation. We then proceeded to differentiate the 
literary characteristics of the Danes from those 
of the Swedes and Norwegians, and decided 
almost unanimously that the former were more 
individual, explosive and unbalanced. This 
having been satisfactorily agreed upon, a con- 
troversy arose as to who was the first, Pascal 
or Diderot, to think of making physical experi- 
ments at different altitudes. This grew so heated 
that the matter was left unsettled, and a tactful 
turn was given to the conversation by some one 
asking our serious guest what his opinion was 
as to the much mooted question whether Michelet 
did or did not refuse to visit his dying son. The 
ensuing discussion brought us on to a more 
personal territory and we actually fell to the 
level of discussing the sad degeneracy in literary 
matters of Albert Delmare. When, to the joy 
of criticising an author is added the joy of 
criticising a friend, a zestful pleasure is experi- 
enced, and as we all knew this unfortunate critic 
the talk grew quite brilliant until the gentle 



SHADOWS IN THE GARDEN 71 

Hostess gave the signal for us to pass into the 
salon. 

In France the men do not always remain to 
smoke, away from the VN^omen, and so we had our 
coffee comfortably together. Philippe and I sat 
down in one of the balconied windows overlook- 
ing the garden. I forgot to mention that Philippe 
was one of the guests. He is with us so often 
and la petite grand'mere is always so glad to have 
him come, that he is quite like one of the family. 
I have fallen into the habit of asking him about 
people and things I do not quite understand. 
This evening I was curious about the serious 
guest, for he seemed to me a man from whom the 
soul had gone out, and who worked, moved by 
intellectual springs. Philippe told me that he 
had been a professor in a provincial university, 
that he had done a remarkable piece of scholarly 
work and had thus attracted the attention of the 
Minister of Instruction. He was called to Paris 
and although his roots had struck deep into the 
soil of his native town he came without a moment 
of hesitation. He brought with him his wife, a 
pretty young thing, who was scarcely more than 
a girl and whose mind was filled with ideas as 
charming, tenuous, and fleeting as clouds in a 



72 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

summer sky. He plunged into his new work 
and was soon utterly absorbed in it and oblivious 
of how new conditions might affect his family. 
She, left to herself without acquaintances, obliged 
to live with strict economy and missing pitifully 
the intimate associations of the town where she 
had always lived, endured it as long as she could. 
Then one tragic day her husband was awakened 
from his absorption to find that she had dis- 
appeared, and that his own trusted friend had 
gone with her. 

When he recovered from the blow he was 
a different man. As soon as the proper for- 
malities had been gone through with, he mar- 
ried a middle-aged woman who would make 
a good mother for the three little waifs, left 
to his absent-minded care. He never referred 
to his past, he never accompanied his wife any- 
where, he went out but seldom, and he became 
more deeply absorbed than ever in his work. 
But something was lost, the brilliancy, the origi- 
nality, the creative power was gone, and he never 
became what his talent had promised he would be. 
I looked across to where he was sitting bent over 
in a chair, talking dispiritedly to la petite grand'- 
mere and I thought involuntarily of M. Degas' 



SHADOWS IN THE GARDEN 73 

cab horse. Do they all become hardened, I 
wondered. 

That night as I looked out on my garden it 
failed to bring peace to me for as my eyes 
searched its quiet shadows I seemed to see blind 
human creatures groping about to find the true 
path and failing piteously. Mistaken ones toiling 
and striving and finding only disappointment and 
death. Surely there must be some one to show 
us the way. Surely we are not all without sight. 

Upon this little island of our earth 
Encircled by the stream of death, 
Within a forest dark with phantom shade 
We wander, helpless and afraid. 

Each, groping, seeks some human hand to 

touch 
Yet dreads to feel Death's icy clutch. 
And one shrieks out lest he be left behind 
For all of us oh God! are blind. 

It helps us not, in struggling for the way. 
That some once saw the light of day. 
Pale memories, washed dim with tears. 
Of morning suns seen through a mist of 
years. 



74 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

It matters not in seeking the lost path, 
That the full measure of the wrath 
Has not been meted out to those 
Who see faint shapes, as at the evening's 
close. 

For when the awful truth at last is known 

That we are left blind and alone, 

Our outstretched arms in maddened fear 

we fling 
And huddled close, await the horror of the 

Thing. 

But one, through sightless eyes, discerns the 

goal. 
With face serene and faith-steeped soul 
She lifts a child, whose gaze, undimmed by 

fears 
Sees clear the promise of the years. 

The moon shone from behind a cloud which 
had been veiling it, the stars gleamed more 
brightly, and, whether it was because my eyes had 
become accustomed to the dimness, or because a 
veil had been lifted, I now saw clearly that the 
confused shadows were bushes standing in their 
proper places beside the clean gravelled paths. 



IX 

Wedding Bells 

TUST before waking the next morning I had 
^ a new dream. I was in a strange country; 
it was early morning and the haze was on every- 
thing. There was a valley with blue hills on 
either side, hills that melted into other hills, into 
far vistas that could be seen with marvellous 
distinctness. I was on a high slope on one side 
of the valley. All about me was a wondrous 
green grass of velvet, trees glittering in the dew, 
and, as I walked and ran, I felt no sense of 
weight nor weariness. Across the valley the 
hills were dotted with fruit trees laden with 
blossoms, flowers of snow white, and rosy tinted 
fragrant marvels. And as I floated, as one does 
in dreams, a sense of beauty in color and in 
perfume welled up in my soul and so filled my 
whole being with ecstasy that it was almost pain. 
The waves of feeling filled my eyes with tears 
and I awoke with my cheeks wet and my heart 
throbbing with an exquisite sensation which I 
had never felt in such completeness in my waking 
hours. 

75 



76 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

The first sound I heard was the joyous trill 
of the merle. Now that I know he is caged, 
respect is added to my admiration. Perhaps he 
sings more divinely because of his limitations. 
If he were free he would have so many distrac- 
tions and he would have more ways of express- 
ing himself. Now, all his little being must be 
poured out in song and hopping from perch to 
perch. The night had cooled the air and my 
dream, the song, the freshness, had banished 
away all gray thoughts of the evening before. 
Besides it was a time in which to be happy, for 
it was the wedding day of pretty Genevieve 
D'Albert. 

All of us at the House of the Garden 
were interested in Genevieve's wedding, for it 
was to be a manage d'amour and we spoke of it 
as though that were quite an unusual thing. Be- 
sides, Genevieve had had her little tragedy and 
it was quite time that her happy days should 
come. When she was very young, still under 
twenty, she had been engaged to a young man 
who seemed to be eminently satisfactory. The 
arrangements for the wedding had all been made, 
a modest but bewildering trousseau had been 
prepared, when it was discovered that the young 



78 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

man was leading several kinds of lives, none of 
them being of lilial whiteness. The disappoint- 
ment was great, for Genevieve had no dot, so 
that there were difficulties in the way of her find- 
ing the right kind of a husband, or indeed any 
husband at all. 

Happily a very unusual Count met her, heard 
her sing and speedily fell in love with her. The 
lack of a dot was politely overlooked and now 
we were all to have the pleasure of seeing two 
happy people united. The wedding was to take 
place in an old church hidden in one of those 
side streets which unexpectedly branch off at a 
sharp angle from a perfectly staid thoroughfare 
and go straggling off in a purposeless fashion, 
until they are suddenly brought up against a 
blank wall. 

On one of these vagrant and picturesque 
streets stands the old church which boasts of 
generations of worshippers from the same fami- 
lies. This gives it an air of respectability which 
is increased by its uncompromisingly plain fagade 
and its honest square tower. It seemed quite 
proper that there should be no bridal wreaths 
or other indications of a festive nature. Any 
such decorative attempt would have been re- 



WEDDING BELLS 79 

garded frowningly by the old gray church and 
it would have looked more grim than ever. The 
big carriages lumbered heavily up the narrow 
street, while the guests, who came on foot, had to 
dodge in and out as best they could ; for the side- 
walks had shrunk into the houses long ago. 

The sun shone brightly and the sober church 
had relaxed enough from its conventional attitude 
to throw open wide its doors and let a few daring 
rays shine in to the dim interior. We hastily 
sought seats from which we might view the 
spectacle. Leading the procession came the two 
beadles in all the bravery of gold lace, white 
plumes, and heavy chains. They tell me that the 
office of beadle is often hereditary and that ex- 
plains the majesty of gesture and movement of 
this particular class. It could not have been 
learned in one generation. Following the beadle 
came the bride, leaning prettily on her father's 
arm, then the groom with his mother who was 
gorgeous in violet, nodding plumes and lace ; then 
the mother of the bride on the rather frail arm of 
the bride's brother, and then came numberless 
relatives two by two down to the tiny little cousin 
in blue silk. 

The bride and groom took their places side by 



80 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

side in front of two chairs placed directly before 
the altar, two pompous chairs of gilded carved 
wood and red damask. The cortege took its 
place in smaller chairs at either side of the altar 
and facing it. We thus had an excellent oppor- 
tunity for studying the backs of the two families 
which were about to be allied. As far as breadth 
was concerned the bride's family had the advan- 
tage, although there was an old dowager on the 
young husband's side who measured a noble ex- 
panse of purple satin. This was perhaps to com- 
pensate for the extreme slenderness of the groom, 
whose shoulders were not much wider than the 
distance between his ears, and whose collar was 
grotesquely high, but of whom all said with 
satisfaction — " // est bien mince mats tres dis- 
tingue" 

The ceremony was long. The discourse de- 
livered to the young couple by the stout priest 
was unintelligible to the audience, and the con- 
stant necessity of rising and falling, kneeling and 
standing, according to the tinkling of a bell rung 
by an irresponsible-looking young person in a 
lace slip, made us welcome the excitement fur- 
nished by the ceremony of the qiiete. Three 
young girls led by three young men, and each 



WEDDING BELLS 81 

couple preceded by a beadle, went about among 
the audience. The young girls each held out 
mutely, but smilingly, charming little bags of silk 
to match their costumes, and destined to receive 
the offerings for the poor. Philippe happened 
to be one of the escorts and I noticed how careful 
he was of the rather frightened-looking little 
demoiselle d' honneur whom he guided in and 
out, once in a while saying something to reassure 
her. He looked very handsome, too, and I 
noticed that when he came near la petite grand'- 
mere he bent his tall head and whispered some- 
thing that made her smile responsively. 

The quete was finally finished after each mem- 
ber of the audience, or perhaps I should say the 
congregation, had been given three separate and 
distinct opportunities of contributing. A few 
last words were pronounced by the priest and 
then all the bridal party including the nearest 
relatives passed into the sacristy. There, in the 
stuffy dimness of the stone chamber, they ranged 
themselves around the wall and every one went 
in to congratulate the bride and groom, and inci- 
dentally to salute those of the relatives whom 
one might happen to know. The final act was 
to return to our places in the church and there 



82 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

await the bridal procession which now passed 
in from the sacristy and walked down the aisle 
and out again into the sunshine. After it was 
all over, I felt a certainty about the durability 
of the knot, a feeling induced no doubt by the 
thoroughness and deliberation of the ceremony. 
There seemed an effect of finality about it that 
cannot be produced by our glittering matrimonial 
pageants that dazzle the eyes for a few minutes, 
before a theatrical background. 

We all went to the bride's home and if any 
more ratification of the alliance was needed, it 
was amply done there in pleasant libations and 
delicious viands which only French chefs know 
how to concoct. Philippe was, as usual, here, 
there and everywhere, now giving an ice to one 
of the aunts, now talking wath a shy cousin from 
the provinces; but when I was leaving, I found 
him beside me, and he asked me with a little 
air of audacity befitting the suggestion — " Sup- 
pose you permit me to walk home with you " — 
then anxiously as he noticed my hesitation, " It 
will be all right, you know, for you are not 
French." 

We wandered home through the big gardens 
partly because they were beautiful and especially 



WEDDING BELLS 83 

because it was not the shortest way home. It 
was PhiHppe, however, who first thought of that, 
at least he spoke of it first. We were just in 
the mood lazily to enjoy everything and we 
watched the children sailing their boats in the 
big basin, and others gracefully playing at diaholo. 
As we sauntered on we caught a glimpse of the 
red and blue uniforms of the band off in the 
distance and we drifted towards the enclosure, 
paid our four sous and went in. Overhead was 
a leafy canopy of that delicate exquisite green of 
spring interlaced by graceful black branches and 
supported by strong upspringing trunks, that rose 
with almost a visible movement of life. This 
natural shelter caused a soft, gentle light to be 
diffused, a cool verdant glow like green amber, 
or sea depths seen through clear waters, giving 
one a sense of refreshment that was grateful and 
soothing and life giving. Once in a while a bird 
darted across or a dove winged its slower flight 
and perched on a branch to listen a while. 

About us were people of all sorts and condi- 
tions. Next us was an elderly American with his 
second wife on their wedding journey. I cannot 
tell by what subtle signs we knew that she was 
not the first consort, but Philippe and I were of 



84 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

one mind on the subject. The groom had new 
gloves which he tried not to take off, although he 
was thus doing violence to his instincts, and her 
hat had a garnish of bright cherries. On the 
other side was a gloomy-looking young man who 
listened intently to the music, drawing an occa- 
sional deep sigh. Across the aisle were twins 
dressed exactly alike in gray, green, and pink. 
They were not little girls; if they had been they 
might have been picturesque. As it was, they 
were incontestably mothers of families, and the 
result was grotesque. In front of us was a large, 
shapeless woman with a curious home-made hat 
who had in the seat next to her a big awkward 
dog which she caressed tenderly from time to 
time. When she turned to smile on him her face 
was illumined. 



X 

Futility 

T?ITHER the wedding or the walk home with 
"■—^ PhiHppe or both together had been too 
great a dissipation. At all events the next morn- 
ing I awoke with a profound feeling of dissatis- 
faction with myself. I realized that the days 
had been slipping by and that I had been playing ; 
I had been an onlooker and not a worker. The 
task I came to do was scarcely begun, my 
precious time was passing and I had accomplished 
nothing. So I scarcely waited to look into my 
garden but swallowed my chocolate hastily, 
almost resentfully, and then went out into the 
street. So great was my haste to begin work 
that I recklessly took a cab and told the driver 
to go quickly to the Bibliotheque Nationale. 
Feverishly I sent in my list of books, knowing 
full well that the hottest fever would have time 
to cool before the deliberate, softly shod attend- 
ants would bring me what I wanted. Fortu- 
nately there were some books in reserve and I 
could begin to work. 

85 



86 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

The silence of the place, broken only by the 
scratching of pens or the low whispers of some 
anxious inquirer, gradually stilled my nerves and 
I fell to working busily. But after the glow of 
morning had passed and the afternoon wore on, 
a sense of uselessness came over me. I leaned 
back in my chair and looked about me. At the 
table where I was working was an old man. I 
had seen him here before. He was short, round, 
and red-cheeked, with bleary blue eyes and a 
white fringe of hair all about his face. His 
clothes were shiny and frayed and he had a 
greasy scarf around his neck. Every morning 
when he came in he wore an air of jaunty cheer 
and flimsy energy, which was pathetically and 
obviously an assumption. He always gathered a 
large number of volumes about him, and he had 
an incalculable number of soiled slips of paper 
covered with notes written in a microscopical 
hand, which he arranged ceremoniously on the 
the table before him. From time to time he 
would exchange low jocular remarks with his 
neighbor and then with pursed lips and an air of 
great importance he would begin his work. This 
seemed to consist in copying from the books 
about him. He would begin with apparent vigor, 










tt^¥^'^:F^-^"^1 



3 



88 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

then, in an incredibly short time, his pen would 
drop from his hand, his head would fall forward 
on his chest and he would dream away and nod 
until a more violent nod than usual would arouse 
him. Then he would look furtively around, pick 
up his pen in a casual way; but before he had 
well commenced again to copy, the pen had fallen 
from his poor old nerveless fingers and his mind 
was far away in another land. 

They told me he had been a brilliant journalist 
and that a great part of his life had been spent 
in the library. He could no longer control his 
mind but the library habit was so strong that he 
could be happy nowhere else. When the attend- 
ant's voice rang out at closing time with the 
sonorous cry ''On ferme!" the ex-journalist 
would arouse himself and with a visible effort 
become again the busy bustling old worker of 
the morning. He would gather his notes to- 
gether in a critical, judicial fashion, as though 
summing up the work of the day, shake his head 
like a strong man dissatisfied with strenuous but 
insufiicient effort, then throwing off his annoy- 
ance would turn to his neighbor, exchange greet- 
ings and farewells and then trot out with the 
short shuffling step of the aged. 



FUTILITY 89 

The shadow of this futile old man followed 
me home and as I sat at my window in the 
twilight and looked into my garden its beauty 
and quiet did not bring their usual refreshment 
to my soul, for I was oppressed by a sense of 
uselessness. Just then a tall, vigorous young 
figure entered the garden and almost simultane- 
ously Alphonsine knocked at my door and said 
breathlessly (I know she ran all the way up- 
stairs) , " Monsieur Philippe is in the garden and 
desires to speak to Mademoiselle." 

He has some new idea about his Pascal and he 
wants to talk to me about it, said I, and the 
thought brought a sudden unexpected wave of 
happiness. It mattered not a fig to me whether 
it was Pascal or any other old worthy. The real 
thing was that Philippe had come to me, that he 
needed me. And I went down into the garden. 



XI 

The Loneliness of Bleu-bleu 

^T^HE black cat of the concierge is a common- 
-^ place creature. One can tell it by the sly 
way in which he prowls about the garden paths 
watching stealthily some happy songster and 
waiting for an unguarded moment when he can 
spring upon him and stop his song forever. He 
always comes up to me purring with offensive 
friendliness after such an exploit, hoping to de- 
ceive me with his shallow artifices. He is 
obsequious, sinuous, altogether a thorough hypo- 
crite of low bourgeois origin. 

Not so Bleu-bleu. Bleu-bleu seldom goes out 
into the garden. He prefers the soft, velvety 
rugs in the big sunny room of la petite grand'- 
mere. Bleu-bleu ignores with fine disdain the 
very existence of the black cat. Bleu-bleu 
is gigantic in size and his fur is magnificent, 
of a steel blue-gray. His eyes are a fathom- 
less yellow with an inscrutable look in the 
narrow sinister slit of the pupil, and his tail, 
long and luxuriant, scarcely ever lies prone, but 

90 



LONELINESS OF BLEU-BLEU 91 

rises belligerently or waves with suave benignity 
as the mood ordains. Bleu-bleu is never playful, 
heaven forbid! He spends much of his time in 
deep meditation on his soft cushion close be- 
side his little mistress. She is the only one from 
whom any liberties are permitted. She alone 
may caress him, to her alone does he pour out his 
soul in inarticulate purrings. He sometimes 
deigns to enter the salon of an evening when we 
are gathered there after dinner and his advent 
always causes a sensation. He enters with slow, 
silent dignity, his tail waving softly, his eyes 
gleaming with a golden light. None of us ever 
thinks of calling him affectionately, but we look 
at him admiringly and some one exclaims, " Qu' il 
est heau!" H la petite grand' mere happens not 
to be present he walks solemnly up to her chair, 
leaps into it with a slow, dignified motion, very 
different from the quick, nervous plunge of the 
black cat, and settles down with an air of mourn- 
ful possession. I think we are all afraid of 
Bleu-bleu, except grand'mere. But with all his 
grandeur there is something very pathetic about 
Bleu-bleu, for his very greatness has isolated him, 
and he is a lonely soul. I know he yearns with 
intense longing to mingle with his kind, to be 



92 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

able to go down into the garden and have an orgy 
with the black cat or any other feline, to chase 
birds, to climb trees, to indulge in the joys and 
weaknesses of his species, but he cannot. Fate 
has decreed that he should be set apart, that he 
should be great and solitary. Deep down in his 
cat soul he is puzzled and cannot understand, he 
follows blindly the instinct that raises him above 
his fellows and makes him magnificently lonely. 
Only la petite grand'mere can understand, and, 
being human, understands but imperfectly. 

I inveigled Bleu-bleu down into the garden 
this morning. It was glorious in the sunlight and 
still fresh from the sleep of the night. But the 
gravel of the paths hurt Bleu-bleu's aristocratic 
paws and the dew on the grass made him sneeze. 
He turned suddenly from me and went back to 
his dry velvet rugs, waving his tail in reproachful 
sorrow over my vulgar tastes. I could not wait 
to lure him back again or even apologize to him, 
for we, my Hostess, Germaine, and I, were to go 
to take the midday meal with the Poet. 

The Poet had withdrawn from Paris when he 
found himself doomed no longer to walk its be- 
loved streets or mingle in its cherished activities. 
V/hen he knew that the struggle with the last 
great Foe was to be a long one, he chose to go 



LONELINESS OF BLEU-BLEU 93 

to one of those peaceful little suburbs where 
quaint old villas open their gates on steep winding 
streets and where a kindly forest surrounds the 
community with cool protecting arms. And it 
was here we found him after a noisy, jerky ride 
on the top of a tram. We pulled the bell at the 
iron gate in the wall and soon after we heard the 
patter of clumsy feet down the gravel walk, and 
the gate was opened by a round faced little maid 
from whose eyes had not yet vanished the ex- 
pression of provincial wonder. To our query 
she replied with a curious little curtsy and with a 
Southern rolling of her r's, that her master had 
not yet returned from his morning promenade. 
Would we go out to meet him in the forest or 
would we come in and wait? We elected the 
former and after many anxious directions the 
little maid started us on our way. 

We walked along the hot glaring street 
for a while, then branched off by a narrow 
lane, between high walls, and suddenly we 
were in the forest where we were enveloped 
in a delicious coolness. As we walked down 
the quiet paths my Hostess talked of the 
Poet. She told me how bravely he had strug- 
gled in his youth, not only with poverty, but 
against his poetic inspiration. He had become 



94 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

a mathematician and tried to limit his soul 
to formulae, and fence in his imagination by 
geometric figures, but in vain. At last, realizing 
his destiny, he cast aside all prejudice and felt 
himself free and then his unimprisoned soul 
found expression in a noble philosophy clothed 
in poetic form, all the more exquisite and perfect 
because of the mental dicipline of his youth. 
And, as his thought became more free, it rose to 
greater heights where the sky is more pure and 
where the stars seem very far apart the one 
from the other. There were fewer ears to hear 
his song and alas! fewer hearts to understand. 
His old peasant mother, though loving him 
blindly, trembled fearfully lest his soul be lost. 
The world respected and admired him, but those 
who knew him had grown into a very small 
circle until now he ... At this moment we 
heard the cheerful tinkle of a bell and the sound 
of tiny hoofs, and then appeared at a turn of the 
lane a humorously small donkey with a 
grotesquely large head, drawing a sort of wheeled 
chair in which sat a very large man. The first 
effect produced by the strange outfit was that of 
a caricature. Everything seemed to be whim- 
sically out of drawing and so I failed for a 
moment to see what later made me forget every- 



LONELINESS OF BLEU-BLEU 95 

thing else, and that was the fine head and won- 
derful face of the man who sat in the wheeled 
chair and who was admonishing his ludicrous 
little steed in words of mock appealing. 

When he saw us, his eyes lighted with a cordial 
welcome, and he begged us to forgive his dis- 
courtesy in not having been at the house to re- 
ceive us there. He said that that abominable 
Friquette was to blame entirely; that she had 
loitered along the way and had insisted upon 
nibbling the grass and otherwise bhowing what 
an insensate gourmand she was. Friquette 
listened to this abuse with a meek and gentle air, 
ears drooping low, and remorse in the curve of 
her back, but her eyes had an unrepentant look 
which crushed any hope of permanent reform. 

We walked back beside the queer vehicle chat- 
ting of the bright morning, of the beauties of the 
forest and of friends from whom we bore mes- 
sages to the Poet. Friquette drew the chair past 
the iron gate, up the gravel walk, and through the 
door of the villa, down the passage and into 
the large sunny room which served as salon and 
dining room. Here the Poet's sister cam,e 
bustling in and, after greeting us, hastily unhar- 
nessed Friquette from the chair and sent her out 
into the garden. While she was doing this I had 



96 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

time to note the startling likeness and unlikeness 
between brother and sister. They both had large 
frames and strong features. But his features 
had been softened, spiritualized and transfigured 
by the great thoughts which they constantly 
reflected, and his expression was illumined by 
the inner light of his generous soul, while the very 
helplessness of his big body emphasized the em- 
pire of his intelligence. Her frame, on the 
contrary, had housed a little mind which could 
grasp only the edge of things, could see nothing 
but the surface, and her face had grown sharp 
and fretted and the light had gone out from it, 
because of her inability to see any meaning in 
life. At least, so it seemed to me when I first 
saw them together. He, immobile, huge, but 
dominating and winning us all by the look in his 
face and the sound of his voice. She, gaunt, thin, 
active, jumping up to fleck off a bit of dust here 
or to straighten a chair there, her strident voice 
administering a sharp reproof to the anxious 
little servant, or reproaching her brother for some 
sublime absence of mind. Yet she was all he 
had left in the world to care for him in his weak- 
ness, and they were bound together by the ties 
of blood, and he seldom saw any one else. 



XII 

Philosophy and Poetry 

'' I ^HE Poet did not eat with us, for already his 
-^ illness had freed him from the necessities 
still common to the rest of us. And in this very 
isolation there was something symbolic of his 
spiritual mind. He came to us at dessert for he 
might yet partake of honey and fruit, the food of 
gods. As though refreshed by the half hour of 
fasting, his face shone with a gentle gayety and 
he was pleased to indulge himself at my expense. 
So I was an American and I was like all of my 
race full of energy. Was I perchance a struggle- 
for-lifer? He pronounced the strange words 
with a whimsical attempt to imitate the English 
and with the result that I would never have 
known what he meant, had I not heard the term 
before. And I had crossed the ocean how many 
times? Six? Ah, that was incredible. Why 
should one take so much trouble to see other 
lands if one were perfectly comfortable at home? 
And his eyes twinkled. 

After dinner we went out into the little garden 

97 



98 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

where it was easy to roll the wheeled chair, and 
the little servant brought us our coffee nervously, 
but without serious accident. While his sister 
knitted hideous gray wool petticoats for a winter 
which seemed infinitely unpotential on this warm 
sunny day, the Poet, grown more serious, talked 
of the art he loved so well. He touched but 
lightly on his own work but dwelt lovingly on 
the young poets of the present, their ambitions, 
their aspirations and their achievements. He saw 
much to commend and his only criticism was for 
those who treated the muse lightly, for those who 
used their talent in order to seduce the public 
with pretty music, but who gave no thoughts. 
Then he went on to speak of ideas which, because 
they were so high and lofty, can best find their 
expression in a form which demands a clear 
mind, an instinctive sense of proportion, and an 
ear that is attuned to the finest shades of mean- 
ing. As he spoke, he seemed to go far away 
from us into a region where we could not yet 
follow, and when he ceased, a silence fell upon 
us and in his face there came gradually a look 
of unutterable sadness and of great lonliness. 

As we went home my Hostess told me of the 
deep friendship existing between the Poet and the 



PHILOSOPHY AND POETRY 99 

Master and how, since the Master had gone, he 
had become more and more detached from the 
things of this world — " much as I have myself," 
added my Hostess softly and as though forget- 
ting me. ^' If it were not for Germaine how gladly 
would I go to him." And her eyes took on the 
same look of loneliness and of sadness that I had 
seen in the Poet's a little while before. 

In the late afternoon when we stopped to take 
tea with Philippe my mind was still full of the 
Poet and his words, and I waited for an oppor- 
tunity to tell him all about our visit. Philippe 
lives in a charming little gargoniere on the top 
story of a house overlooking the broad Avenue 
de r Observatoire. We had to toil up the five 
flights of stairs but Philippe's greeting quite re- 
warded us. He had heard our coming and was 
at the open door to receive us and usher us in. 
His sister had already arrived. She is tall and 
handsome too, and has a boyish way about her 
that delightfully suggests a life-long and sympa- 
thetic companionship with her brother. Phil- 
ippe's tiny sitting room is full of books and pic- 
tures and a piano. He has improvised a shaky 
tea table whose feeble legs threaten to collapse 
at any moment, especially when Philippe lays 



100 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

his strong hand on a cup or a dish of cake re- 
posing upon it. Philippe is a perfect host and he 
serves raspberry shrub and petits fours with reck- 
less hospitality to his hungry guests. When we 
have been refreshed he takes me out on a little 
balcony from which we look down over the tops 
of the magnificent row of trees in the avenue, on 
down to the Jardin du Luxembourg which, from 
here, looks like a dense forest. 

As we stood there, I told Philippe of the 
Poet and what he said, and how his loneli- 
ness of soul had impressed me. But Philippe 
told me not to pity him but rather envy 
him, for there is no happiness so great in life as 
that of being able to embody a sentiment or an 
idea into some material form, and that no one 
could be really lonely who could create, for at 
any time he could call to him these children of 
his brain. Philippe grew quite eloquent. 

" When a man simply feels," said he, " and 
spends his life in feeling without giving expres- 
sion to his sentiments in a definite form, then his 
sentiment makes him flabby and weak and he 
grows less and less capable of strong feeling. If, 
on the other hand, he can define it, face it, analyze 
it and cast it into a beautiful mould from which 



PHILOSOPHY AND POETRY 101 

he can take it and contemplate it as a finished 
object, then his mind is strengthened and he has 
grown so that he is now qualified for more lofty 
experiences. The Poet may seem sad and lonely 
to us, but it is because we cannot follow him into 
the far country of his thoughts. If we could 
see into his soul, we would perhaps catch a 
glimpse of the joy that comes from knowing 
that one must be lonely in order to be oneself, 
that there is a world into which none other can 
penetrate with us, into which we go unaccom- 
panied, with firmness and with awe, knowing 
that to desecrate it by another's presence is to 
sell our birthright, to lose the only thing that 
makes us individuals." 

I'm afraid I was looking more at Philippe's 
handsome face than listening to his words for 
I could not quite follow him in all he said. 
I only hoped that he would never get that 
sad look into his happy eyes that I had seen 
in the face of the Poet that morning. Then 
Philippe told me that he had decided about 
his work on Pascal and I found that more 
within my comprehension, and we even grew 
merry over the doings of the old time mystics. 
But the view from the balcony could not serve 



102 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

as a pretext for an eternal tete-a-tete and Philippe 
remembered that he was host, so we had to join 
the piano and the books and the pictures in the 
tiny room. Philippe and his sister gave us some 
music, he sitting at the piano, and playing a 
pretty accompaniment to some of Verlaine's ex- 
quisite words, which the sister tall and straight, 
sang in a clear bird-like soprano. Philippe had 
composed the air and perhaps that is the reason 
she sang the song with such exquisite sympathy. 
At all events it went straight to my heart where 
it sang itself all the rest of the evening. 

That evening we were alone at dinner. Not 
even the Patriot came in, and it was well, for if 
he had I am sure he would have received short 
shrift from la petite grand'mere. After dinner 
when we were gathered about the lamp and the 
soft evening air came in from the garden, the 
hostess read us from the Poet's volume, dedi- 
cated to the Master, where one great soul spoke 
to another with perfect sureness of comprehen- 
sion. And as she read, I thought of the many 
poets who have been inspired by the wondrous 
charm of nature and by the outer aspect of 
things, and of the fewer great ones who, con- 
templating the great problems of science, have 



PHILOSOPHY AND POETRY 103 

striven to solve the enigma of life and have en- 
deavored to show to others who would rhyme, 
that there is an illimitable world beyond the 
beaten paths already trod. 

The Hostess' voice is very sweet and musical 
and it almost silenced that other refrain that I 
had heard in the afternoon, but not altogether. 
And I'm afraid my last thoughts as I looked 
out upon the silent garden were not of the great 
Poet we had seen but of Philippe and his music 
and I sang softly to my garden, " Toute la vie est 
la, douce et tranquille/' 



XIII 

Dreamers 

^T^HIS morning as I was sipping my chocolate 
-*- in the garden (Alphonsine gives me choco- 
late once in a while as a petite surprise and when 
she brings it to me I always express successively 
stupefaction, dawning comprehension, and a 
gourmand's satisfaction, which makes her laugh 
delightedly and say that I am very French. A 
compliment which she knows instinctively will 
please an American young woman.) Well, as I 
was sipping the luscious beverage and buttering 
the crisp bread with the sweetest of Normandy 
butter the Patriot came in. He looked a little re- 
proachfully, I thought, at my luxurious meal, 
and said gently : 

" I slept but four hours last night and have 
breakfasted on a dozen almonds and some 
dates. " 

" What did you do when you were not sleep- 
ing ? " queried I sympathetically. 

" Ah ! there 's where I have the advantage over 
those who sleep and eat as you do," he said point- 

104 



DREAMERS 105 

ing not disdainfully, but sadly, at my steaming 
chocolate pot. " Since I have felt my country's 
need I have thought it my duty to give her of 
my best. There is so much, so infinitely much to 
be done and the time is very short. I have 
learned that by determination one may gradually 
accustom himself to less and less sleep and to 
little food. This absence of physical indulgence 
helps one to concentrate the mind more and more 
on higher things. I can now write for ten hours 
at a time without taking food or rest. Last 
night I wrote this sketch of our great Mickie- 
wicz." And he showed me a bulky manuscript 
he had in his hand. 

" But will a sketch of the great Mickiewicz 
help you to liberate Poland? " I asked with blind 
feminine lack of logic. 

He answered patiently, " I do not intend to 
liberate my country by the usual and brutal means 
of revolution but in a slower and surer way. I am 
going to show the world what a marvellous race 
we are, what minds have lived in Poland, what 
a literature we have created, what geniuses we 
have produced. I shall appeal to the generous 
heart of the world and I shall say : ' Would you 
stand by and let such a people be oppressed ? ' I 



106 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

shall make my plea so eloquent that it cannot be 
resisted and in time the nations of the earth will 
rise and free us from our chains." 

Into the face of the Patriot came the rapt look 
of the Dreamer. My chocolate had grown cold, 
but I was ashamed to have even noticed it and I 
thought with compunction of my eight hours of 
dreamless sleep. 

In a moment he came back to earth and said, 
"If you would like to read what I have just 
finished I should be glad to leave this with you," 
and he put the closely written sheets into my 
hands. 

As I read about the inspired poet of an en- 
slaved land the notes of the caged merle rang 
out gloriously in the morning air and when I 
at last laid down the glowing eulogy I almost 
believed the enthusiastic prophecy of the Patriot : 
that the time would soon be here when we should 
all be struggling with the intricacies of the Polish 
language, in order to taste at first hand the 
beauties of the poet's work. 

From where I sat I could see the graceful apse 
of the church over at the side of the convent 
garden, beyond the low ivy-covered wall that 
separated us. It, too, was the work of some 



DREAMERS 107 

Dreamer and it symbolized the faith in a Great 
Dreamer who gave us his Hfe for an idea. How 
many have followed in His train, some for 
greater, some for lesser things, but all with a fine 
abandonment of self and a strong faith in some 
dream of betterment or of heroism. 

The day was warm and the garden lent itself 
more than usual to musings but I could not stay. 
Already the morning was almost spent and I had 
promised to take luncheon with my artist friend 
in her atelier which was in the very heart of 
the artist quarter, on the left bank. It is a place 
dear to all who have once lived there. Gregari- 
ousness, dirt, noise, children, friendliness, all 
abound and, on this morning, sunshine also. 

When after many inquiries I reached the 
right stairway and had mounted the proper num- 
ber of flights,'! was met at the door and guided 
by a maid with a dubiously colored apron through 
mysterious passages where damp washings were 
hung on wavering strings, to a door, which, when 
opened, revealed a place of light and joy. I 
looked down several steps and into a large square 
high room filled with all sorts of queer old things, 
but flooded with sunshine and rippling with 
laughter. Two young Americans were there, one 



108 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

a joyous-looking, Titian-haired creature with 
dimples and an omniverous attitude towards the 
French language, blandly unconscious of the con- 
trast between her raw, ignorant yet charming, 
enthusiastic optimism and the Old World which 
she had come to conquer. The other, a more 
angular type, was dressed in startlingly mannish 
style, even to stiff shirt and high boots, but so 
girlishly pleased with the result that you had to 
forgive her and try to get her point of view. In 
contrast to these New World types was a sweet 
English matron whose soft voice caressed the vi- 
brant French so gently that the vowels forgot 
to make any sound at all! Others came in to 
join us until we were a gay party of ten. The 
lunch was brought in by a diminutive gargon who 
struggled and beamed under his heavy basket. 
I never saw a French servant yet who did n't 
mellow and grow happy and radiant over the 
prospect of a fete of any dimensions whatever, 
even though his own labors were vastly increased 
thereby. And it is n't because of the possible 
honorarium; it is because of their dear sociable 
souls. 

We had to wait a while until the one tablecloth 
was ironed, and then we all helped to draw the 



DREAMERS 109 

treasures from the basket. It was a brave lunch- 
eon ; chicken with cresson, ponimes de terre, and 
choux-fleurs, not to speak of dehcate tomato 
salad, and ending with a grand apotheosis of 
strawberries, meringues, and black coffee. What 
mattered it that owing to the lack of table-ware 
the cauliflower was suggestive of chicken, and 
left in turn, a lingering taste amidst the strawr 
berries; or that one knife and fork had to do 
valiant duty for every course, for each dish was 
flavored with wit, and deft fingers took the place 
of table utensils. 

I looked around the laughing faces and it 
seemed to me I could understand a little better 
why France held such a fascination for artists. 
They, more than others, have natures that are 
quick to feel ; they are susceptible to color, music, 
beauty, to all sensations; they can turn quickly 
from grave to gay. Here in many-phased France, 
where at times there is the calm of deep feeling, 
more often perhaps the movement and excite- 
ment of seething ideas, the artist feels at home, 
here he comes in to his own, here he can be him- 
self. Paris has the nature of an artist, deep 
feeling underneath seeming frivolity, power of 
hard work suddenly passing into the volatility of 



110 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

a happy child. It is full of dramatic changes, 
throbbing with quick sympathy, and never stupid, 
never tiresome. 

No casual onlooker would guess at the trage- 
dies of suffering hidden for the moment behind 
the smiling masks here in this laughter echoing 
studio. The woman with the clear-cut features 
who carries her head high has suffered all the 
indignities of living au pair in Paris. Those who 
have not tried it know nothing of the misery that 
can be inflicted on a foreigner who barters her 
precious time for food and lodging. When a 
fixed sum of money enters into an arrangement, 
then time defines itself and one stands upon an 
independent footing, but when the compensation 
takes the vague form of bed and board, there is 
a change of attitude. The employee has no foot- 
ing, for now the measure of her work is the meas- 
ure of her capacity, and that, to the watchful 
eyes of her employer may become limitless. But 
that has all passed — a week ago she received 
word that she was to be "hung" in the salon and 
we all tell her with friendly fatuity that her for- 
tune is made. The joy of thinking so for a while 
will help her over the hard places which are yet 
to come. 



DREAMERS 111 

The man with a white face framed in a mass 
of black waving hair whom I have just caught in 
the act of steaHng his neighbor's meringue came 
over years ago exulting in the thought of a life 
work. He had been commissioned to create, as 
he would, the most beautiful figures that his 
eager fingers could mold. Impetuously he had 
left all behind and trusting to an incorruptible 
legislature he gave himself with intensest ardor to 
his work. Noble forms that gave pure outlines of 
his lofty thoughts filled his studio and he lived for 
months in the happy world of those who create. 
Then came an awakening and he was dragged 
down to a world of base commercialism and baser 
fraud. Funds had been misused, his commission 
was revoked, the money he had advanced in happy 
confidence was a total loss and he was left to look 
with dull disappointment at the lovely forms 
which were doomed to perish, now that hope of 
immortality in stone was snatched from them. 
After the first bitterness had passed, he took up 
his burden and with characteristic energy turned 
his mind to ways and means. Entirely bankrupt 
as to funds and almost so as to faith, he never- 
theless rallied and just now he is carrying on a 
thriving trade in antiques with the dawning hope 



112 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

of being able some day to witness the resurrec- 
tion of his sleeping ideas. 

The angular, bony-looking Englishman who 
has n't the hint of an idealist in his loose-jointed 
frame and rough tweed suit has lost a fortune in 
Texas trying to establish a sanitarium for the 
poor victims of tuberculosis. 

The large, hearty-looking Frenchman with the 
kind brown eyes and Van Dyke beard is a Breton 
poet whose songs are the echoes of the sea, hypo- 
critically moaning at the very threshold of the 
home which it has robbed of all the singer holds 
most dear. 

And when I know all this, I hear a deeper note 
echoing in the laughter. They are all Dreamers, 
too, seeking to embody this one thing in which 
they have faith, into some form that may live 
for a little while after them. 










XIV 
An Invasion of the Garden 

'HEN I came home late in the afternoon I 
found that a new element had entered into 
my garden. It had been invaded by a happy 
chattering flock of young women, with here and 
there those of a certain age. (Is it indicative of 
the relative politeness of the two countries that 
in America we say a lady of uncertain age, while 
in France they say a lady of a certain age?) The 
Hostess tells me that a club of young working 
girls patronized by some of the aristocracy of the 
Faubourg St. Germain have the use of my gar- 
den for the afternoon. At first I resent it a little 
and so do the birds, for they set up a scolding 



113 



114 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

and a twittering in the branches of the tallest 
tree. They are highly indignant for awhile, but 
presently the blackbird's notes ring out true and 
clear and harmony is restored. At the same time 
a little, fat, overgrown bird which had left its 
nest too early and now found itself sprawling 
helplessly on the ground, is tenderly lifted up by 
one of the young girls and placed in a safe spot 
well out of reach of the claws of the black cat 
of the concierge. Entire confidence is restored 
by this kindly act and the entente cordiale is 
fully established. In the meantime more ladies 
come and then I hear some masculine tones. I, 
like the birds, am excluded from active partici- 
pation in the scene and I resolve, with them, to 
view it from above ; so, they from the trees, and I 
from my window, look down upon the movement 
and life. 

Two or three stout, decorated gentlemen have 
been added. Every one is gesticulating with 
glove-encased arms and hands. Once in a while 
a patroness saunters down the gravelled walk 
with a young girl. I know it is a patroness be- 
cause of her majestic port, her long black lace 
gown and her nodding plumes. I know, too, 
because of the pretty, eager air of the young 



INVASION OF THE GARDEN 115 

girl who is striving her best to say pleasing things 
to the great lady. I notice that the decorated 
gentlemen remain ponderously at one side and 
that the ladies hover about them, or heave-to 
alongside, according to their weight. A little 
dog is now added to the company, a nice, little, 
well trimmed dog, but very active, who is do- 
ing his best to trip up the dowagers and the 
decorated gentlemen. Now everybody sits down, 
not without a great deal of preliminary moving 
about of chairs. They gather around the door 
of the large salon opening into the garden and I 
hear a voice. It is the voice of the oldest of the 
decorated gentlemen, the one with the white 
beard. He is making a speech, in which he tells 
the young girls how fortunate they are to have 
such patronesses, and to offset this, he congratu- 
lates the patronesses upon their happy choice of 
protegees. When he is through with his dis- 
course there is a clapping of hands, and plumed 
head nods to plumed head in approval. Then 
after this flutter there is quiet again and a voice 
rings out in lovely song. The merle is silent. Is 
it from envy? 

This seems to be the formal part of the after- 
noon, for as soon as the applause is over, the 



116 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

party breaks up into groups, some to talk with 
the decorated gentlemen, others to walk slowly 
up and down the paths, while a group of young 
girls gather about the tonneau and try to throw 
the metal discs into the big frog's gaping mouth. 
I cannot but contrast their way of playing a game 
with that of American girls. The French girl 
takes up the disc daintily, laughs deprecatingly, 
says witty things, and throws prettily, but oh! 
so wide of the mark. She does not really care 
about the mark, if only she may be graceful. 
And I think of the American girl, muscular, 
brown-armed and vigorous, who plays to win, and 
does not hesitate to pit herself against her 
brother. 

Suddenly there is a-flutter about the tonneau. 
A tall lady in a trailing black gown, with a white 
aigrette in her hat, is going to play. It is Madame 
la Duchesse, and the girls crowd around. She 
throws the discs graciously, as becomes one of 
her rank, but with entire disregard of their ulti- 
mate destiny, which also may be characteristic of 
one of her rank. The girls vie with each other 
to pick them up. Madame la Duchesse bestows 
laughter and smiles and moves away. 



INVASION OF THE GARDEN 117 

There is a knock at my door and Alphonsine 
announces callers in the salon, so I leave my 
window for a while. The Professor has come, 
and Madame Darbray, who is just now finishing 
the fourth volume of her famous father's corre- 
spondence. Pretty, bird-like Madame Rollin is 
also there, who has buried two celebrated hus- 
bands in due and proper succession, and has 
piously and charmingly written their biographies. 
The conversation naturally turns upon the de- 
funct, and the Professor adds his contribution by 
bewailing the fact that he has not yet been able 
to find a milliardaire who will help him to pub- 
lish his work on Saint Teresa; but millionaires 
interested in publishing the lives of dead saints 
are very rare. He asks me if American million- 
aires are as sordid as French, and I laugh, but 
tell him we have some who are idealists to the 
extent of founding universities and creating a 
hero class. Perhaps they might be induced to 
look into the matter of saints. 

When I go back to my window I find that the 
evening is falling upon my garden, the birds are 
finding their branches and are twittering twilight 
confidences; the lilacs fill the air with a heavier 



118 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

perfume. It is very still and the flowers are 
going to sleep. Once in a while because of the 
stillness here I can hear a shrill cry from the 
street or the sharp crack of a cabman's whip, and 
then the quiet seems deeper than before. Over 
in the convent garden a black-robed sister is 
walking up and down in the shadow of the gray 
apse. From my window I never can see the 
fagade of the old church, only the apse, so that 
it seems wholly cut off from the street. And I 
like to imagine there is no way for the world to 
intrude and disturb the cloistered quiet. 

The convent bell rings half past seven. Lucien's 
well-trained voice announces that dinner is 
served. Good-bye, dear garden. When night has 
wholly fallen I shall see you again, but dimly. I 
shall have to guess at the forms of the trees, but 
I shall feel your fragrance and your freshness 
even more than when I can see you. 



XV 
Dramatic Reflections 

/^NE morning at our midday dejeuner la petite 
^^ grand' mere said, somewhat with the air of 
announcing a calamity : " Mademoiselle Anna 
arrives to-day." Anna is the Patriot's eldest 
daughter, and some days before he had told us 
that he thought she might spend a week in Paris 
on her way to London. In reply to the discreet 
but deft questioning of la petite grand'mere the 
Patriot had told us that his daughter was thor- 
oughly emancipated. We therefore expected to 
see a rather turbulent young person but we were 
pleasantly disappointed and instead, when we 
all met in the salon before dinner, we found a 
charming, very intelligent, rather tired young 
woman, who spoke French with a vertiginous 
rapidity and with a wonderful rolling of the r's. 
She has four other languages at her command 
and I know she speaks them all with equal swift- 
ness. With all her erudition she is afraid of the 
sea, and is timid about travelling alone; so she 
possesses some feminine traits which make us feel 
that after all she is one of us. 

119 



120 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

The Hostess received her with the gracious 
cordiaHty that she always shows. La petite 
grand'mere asked her about the trip from Cra- 
cow and by the time we went to the dinner- 
table we were on the friendliest terms. It was 
decided by the Hostess' sweet insistence that 
Anna should remain at the House of the 
Garden during her week's stay and the Patriot 
forgot his obligations to his country long enough 
to express heartfelt gratitude. Among other 
things she wished to see, Anna expressed a de- 
sire to go to the theatre as often as possible; 
so we planned a regular orgy of dramatic dissi- 
pation. We talked it over at dinner the evening 
she arrived and we were still speaking of it when 
we were sipping our coffee in the salon. Philippe 
joined us then and said he would constitute him- 
self our escort to the Comedie where they were 
giving a revival of "Marion Delome" and we 
would go the next evening. 

Philippe came for us the next night in great 
glee. Monsieur le Directeur had given him 
tickets for his loge and we were to go in state. 
One scarcely needs a period of faithful attend- 
ance at American theatres in order to appreciate 
the finished work of the French actor: never- 



o 




122 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

theless such an interim of feeding on husks 
does add a zest to the joy of going again 
to the French theatre. At the Comedie you may 
be sure that little will change. You see the same 
elegant gentlemen sitting at the bureau, impres- 
sive in their high silk hats and their broad ex- 
panse of shirt bosom. The same toy-like soldiers 
stand on guard; the same gaunt usher in shiny 
dress suit and dyed mustache, offers you pro- 
grammes at six sous ; the same bustling ouvreuse 
takes you officiously to the door of the loge and 
says in the same wheedling voice, " Un petit 
benefice, s'il vous platt, monsieur! " 

The Director's loge is a vast one with room for 
nine arm chairs and there is a comfortable little 
withdrawing room besides, where one can retire 
if one is bored by the play. There is also a door 
leading to the stage in case of need. 

It is delightful to see a play in the old, melo- 
dramatic, romantic style full of violent contrasts, 
impossible situations, impassioned love scenes, 
noble sentiments, base treachery, light ethereal, 
darkness plutonian, all served up on a stage set 
with the most artistic and seductive scenery, in- 
terpreted by the first actors of the world, and 
before an audience weary of modern psychologi- 



DRAMATIC REFLECTIONS 123 

cal and pathological analyses, and in whose souls 
are chords which can still respond to the thrilling 
music of Victor Hugo's incomparable lines. The 
cast is a remarkable one. Madame Bartet, won- 
derful in a graceful dress which makes her years 
seem a fantastic fable, is charming as the beauti- 
ful Marion. Albert Lambert fils, in sombre black, 
plays the tempestuous and sentimental hero. The 
settled gloom never leaves his handsome features ; 
his graceful figure always assurnes a pose of 
profound melancholy, and he is a perfect example 
of all those dear dismal heroes who die young 
after untold sufferings which wring gallons of 
tears from sympathetic eyes. 

And then Laffemas! Leloir's tall gaunt form 
when clothed in black becomes the incarnation of 
all that is sinister and his face bears all the marks 
of a deep-dyed villain. Every time he comes on 
the stage with his furtive yet assertive stride we 
feel the proper thrill of repulsion and disgust. 
And how he makes himself hated by all! No 
Complicated psychology there, to cause any strug- 
gle either in his mind or in the mind of the spec- 
tator. He is wholly, gloatingly, triumphantly 
bad. Le Bargy makes us love again the happy, 
care-free Saverny, who is, or ought to be, the 



124 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

ideal of every romantic young person, and 
Georges Berr with his voice of haunting sweet- 
ness makes a most lovable fool. 

As one act after another sweeps on to the in- 
evitable catastrophe we find ourselves listening 
with breathless interest and forgetting ourselves 
in the play. Even the extravagancies of Didier 
in the prison courtyard do not evoke a smile, and 
when the great scarlet litter of his Eminence 
Rouge passes along, we feel a shudder as its cur- 
tains part, and the white hand waves inexorably, 
and the cavernous voice says, '' Pas de grace ! " 

Anna was enthusiastic and on her way home in 
the cab her r's rolled more eloquently than ever 
as she expatiated on the thrilling interest of the 
play. But now that the glamour of the acting is 
over and the music of the lines is growing fainter 
Philippe and I, experienced theatre-goers that we 
are, talk sagely of the modern drama and how 
superior its realism is to the rantings of Victor 
Hugo. But all the time I have a secret fondness 
for the romantic, and I wonder if Philippe or any 
other modern young man could love with the 
abandon and lyric intensity of a Didier or a 
Hernani. 



DRAMATIC REFLECTIONS 125 

The next afternoon being Thursday Anna and 
I decided to go to the matinee and as she had 
never seen a Revue and I had not seen one for a 
long time, we decided to go to the Varietees. 
When we took our seats we found in front of us 
three monstrous hats surmounting artificial hair, 
arranged in curious puffs and curls as no 
living human hair ever could be. I mentally ex- 
claimed, *' How very French ! " And I was about 
to tell Anna that in an American theatre such a 
thing would not be tolerated, when one of the 
big hats leaned towards the other two, and a 
voice from underneath the beflowered brims said 
with an unmistakable nasal accent, " These are 
very nice seats, ain't they ? " I thought best to 
leave my little discourse on national dissimilari- 
ties until a more propitious moment. 

The performance had n't been going on very 
long when I felt sorry I had come, but I com- 
forted myself by moralizing a little in order to 
counteract the effect of what was going on on 
the stage. Really nice French people seem to 
draw such definite lines between what can be 
simply seen and heard, and that which when seen 
and heard is felt. They see with the artist's eye 



126 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

and they hear with the mind of a wit, things 
which seem in no way to reach the moral sensi- 
biHties. Witty vulgarities seem to leave no 
special bad taste in the mouth, while we Anglo- 
Saxons cannot get them out of the mind for a 
long time afterwards. If asked, they acknowledge 
that such and such a thing from a moral point of 
view is degoutant, but to them it is evidently a 
novel and rather curious idea to look at it in that 
light. There is one standard for things of art 
and of wit; there is another for the ethical and 
moral. The French mental photographic appa- 
ratus is furnished for each of these standards 
with films of different sensitiveness, and when 
one impression is taken the apparatus is clicked, 
the fresh film falls into place, and there is no 
confusion of images. With me, I find that I 
manage my camera blunderingly and I often 
find that I have taken two pictures on the same 
film with disastrous and grotesque results. Some 
of all this I tried to communicate to Anna on the 
way home but she could not understand. She 
had seen nothing but what was laughable in the 
performance. Sometimes I almost wish that I 
did n't come from a long line of Puritan ances- 
tors. 



XVI 

La Petite Grand'mere 

'TT^HAT evening there was as dinner guest at 
-■- the House of the Garden, a dramatic critic. 
All Frenchmen are critics and they delight in 
the fine art, but this guest was a professional 
critic and as such was listened to with much re- 
spectful attention. La petite ' grand'mere never 
goes to the theatre but always reads the chronique 
thedtrale in the Monday edition of Le Temps and 
when her conscience and her embroidery permit 
she reads the latest plays. So vivid is her 
imagination, and so keen is her dramatic instinct 
that she often has a better conception of the play 
than if she had seen it performed. The con- 
versation was more than usually brilliant. For 
once the Patriot was reduced to comparative 
silence. He had no interest in the puerile dramas 
on a mimic stage, for he felt himself an actor in a 
great world drama, where the heroine for whom 
men gave their lives was a lost country. So, 
when the discussion waxed warm over an author 

127 



128 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

a la mode the Patriot became abstracted and his 
eyes seemed to gaze on mighty scenes which we 
poor materialists were too blind to see. As the 
Patriot's abstraction grew, the vivacity of la petite 
grand'mere increased. Philippe, who had come 
in just before dinner was served, with the cheer- 
ful announcement that he had come to spend the 
evening, drew her out and encouraged her to 
give her opinion of such and such a play. 

The discussion became so animated that it was 
continued over the coffee and even bridge was 
not able to assert its usual supremacy. Owing to 
Philippe's tactics the conversation soon became a 
dialogue carried on between the Dramatic Critic 
and la petite grand mere. I remember a great 
deal that was said, although Philippe, who had 
seated himself beside me, said a good many things 
to me, sotto voce, that had nothing to do with the 
state of the modern drama. He has a charming 
way of paying compliments and it is very satisfy- 
ing to have some one notice your clothes and tell 
you that you are looking unusually well, when 
you yourself are conscious of having made a 
distinct effort to look nice and neat. Of course 
these remarks of Philippe distracted me some- 
what and I ought to have felt annoyed, for I had 



LA PETITE GRAND'MERE 129 



come back to Paris to improve my mind and to 
learn as much as I could. And it was very 
annoying, when I stopped to think of it, for had I 
not come determined to put aside all frivolity, to 
bend every energy towards carrying out the 
ambition which had been gradually growing for 
the last two years, to become a literary woman, 
and not to allow any distractions of the heart to 
interfere with this lofty purpose of the mind? 
And now I was beginning to be conscious of the 
fact that I was growing more interested in 
Philippe's plans than I was in my own, and that I 
would rather hear him talk about his work than to 
listen to a philosophical discussion on the trend 
of modern literary ideas. I felt that I must make 
an effort to shake off this weakness and not allow 
any opportunity to pass of understanding better 
the mind of the French people. So I told Philippe 
that we were very rude to talk when a Dramatic 
Critic was discoursing and that we must listen to 
what was being said about the new school of 
young writers. To which Philippe answered by 
a remark that was so very personal I could not 
repeat it, but which established a certain com- 
parison between what a Dramatic Critic was say- 
ing and what / might say that showed me beyond 



130 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

any doubt that Philippe was losing his powers of 
discrimination. Yet what he said was very nice. 
Then I tried hard to listen. La petite grand'- 
mere was saying that the audacity of these young 
men who were writing plays nowadays was 
astonishing. Would they stop at nothing, these 
Bernstein, these Bataille, these Coolus? To be 
sure they were clever, marvellously clever, and 
you were held by the interest of the play, in fact 
you read it breathlessly from beginning to end, 
but what did it all mean? Were all the lofty 
ideas dead ? Did men no longer feel tremendous 
passions? What had become of the noble 
language in which noble sentiments used to be 
expressed ? To-day all Paris had gone mad with 
admiration over a play which told how a woman 
had stolen money from her hostess because she 
wanted to dress well and please her husband. 
A mere vulgar detective story where there were 
no ideals, no poetic sentiment, no psychological 
analyses, nothing but action. And la petite 
grand' mere flashed indignation from her bright 
eyes, as she sat up very straight and remembered 
the great poets on whose works she had been 
nourished. As she stopped for breath the 
Dramatic Critic rushed in: 



LA PETITE GRAND'MERE 131 

"Ah, yes, but Madame must remember that, 
after all, that was what the public wanted, 
action. And had not Bernstein in " Le Voleur " 
given a play so well knit, so deftly constructed, 
where the action passed from scene to scene, 
from act to act so rapidly, so inevitably, that it 
was a masterpiece of art? And had not the 
public, by their enthusiasm, showed that after 
all that is what they demanded? No moral 
treatises, no poetical fancies, but the excitement 
of curiosity and the satisfaction of having some- 
thing happening every instant of the time? And, 
Mademoiselle will bear me out," he said, turning 
to me ; " Is not that the kind of plays that are 
most popular in your country? Do you not de- 
mand a tense interest, and as you say in your 
picturesque, strong way, ' something doing ' all 
the time?" 

I had to assent meekly as I thought of our 
most popular plays. I wanted to protest and 
make a plea for the few who still loved poetry 
on the stage, but I suddenly remembered that 
one of our rising poets had given as his only 
offering a thrilling melodrama and I was silent. 

" Yes," he went on, for la petite grand'mere 
had not yet found her breath, " the public 



132 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

is primitive and unreflecting. It demands first 
of all to be interested and the easiest way to 
interest is to appeal to the eye, not to the mind. 
Bernstein, Bataille and the rest have no higher 
ambition than to attract and dazzle the public. 
They have no ideals, no sense of responsibility. 
If they teach anything, it is that every one has 
a right to happiness, and that he may get it at 
any sacrifice. I am convinced," and the Dramatic 
Critic assumed his editorial air, " that these 
young men are now suffering from an attack of 
Nietszcheism. The doctrines of Nietszche are 
just now becoming fashionable among a certain 
set and those young fellows have read him super- 
ficially and have distorted his theories to suit 
themselves. They are expressing a certain phase 
and the public, easily led, are dazzled by their 
brilliance. Their work cannot endure." 

" But what of the young people," said la petite 
grand'mere, " who have their tastes formed by 
such amoral productions ? " 

" Never fear," answered the Dramatic Critic, 
" You would have no doubt about our youth if 
you could have been at the Comedie the other 
night when the anniversary of Corneille was 



LA PETITE GRAND'MERE 133 



celebrated. The seats were filled with young 
people. The play that was given was " Polyeucte," 
perhaps the one play of Corneille's greater ones 
least calculated to interest the young, for how 
can they appreciate the struggle between the 
grace of God and human love? But I assure 
you, Madame, that the interest was deep and pro- 
found, more than that, there was enthusiasm. I 
wish you might have seen those young faces 
turned toward the stage, watched the way in 
which they listened to some noble passage, and 
that you could have heard the spontaneous bursts 
of applause at the close of a tirade and the air of 
conviction with which the young voices said, ' Ah! 
que c'est heau!' As long as our young people 
can appreciate the great writers of our Age of 
Gold they will never feel but a passing fancy for 
what is unworthy and merely sensational in litera- 
ture." 

La petite grand'mere's eyes sparkled and she 
said, " You are right and we must see to it 
that we teach our little ones to love the best. 
They will never be quite disloyal to what they 
have learned at their mother's knee." 

I thought of an incident which had happened 



134 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

to the seven-year-old great-grandson of la petite 
grand'mere and I almost expected to hear her tell 
it here. But la petite grand'mere never makes an 
exhibition of the cleverness of members of her 
family and she resisted the temptation, if tempta- 
tion it was, to tell it. I respected her feeling suffi- 
ciently not to ask her for it, but I told Philippe 
how the father and mother had taken the small 
Paul to see Buffalo Bill and how when a certain 
fierce warrior seemingly drags his victim around 
the ring Paul was seen with great tears rolling 
down his cheeks. His mother, alarmed, asked him 
what the matter was, and he replied that it made 
him think of Hector dragged around the walls of 
Troy. I wonder how many seven-year-old Ameri- 
cans have a distinct idea of Hector — much less 
could weep over his misfortune? 

We were later than usual in breaking up this 
evening for the modern drama had proved very 
absorbing. The Patriot had taken his leave very 
early and poor little Anna had lost her vivacity 
and was plainly sleepy. The Hostess had been 
knitting, adding a word only from time to time, 
while my mind had wandered more than once 
from the discussion. I was grateful to the 
Dramatic Critic for his eloquence. It had quite 



LA PETITE GRAND'MERE 135 

aroused the youth of la petite grand' mere; and 
then PhiHppe had to stay until the guest of honor 
left. 

There was a breeze blowing when I looked out 
into my garden and the trees whispered secrets to 
me that made me feel quite unreflectingly happy. 
And I leaned over my balcony rail a long time and 
felt the soft night air of France about me like a 
caress. How dear to me were all these in the 
House of the Garden ! 




XVII 

The Garden after a Storm 



^T^IRED we sometimes come upon a cool and 

quiet place. 
With friendly forest trees enclosed about, 
Where soft dead leaves lie thickly strewn 
Close pressed to earth, who, silent, wept their 

fall, 
Then took them back to her great mother 

heart. 
Like them we gently lay us down 
And seek to feel a quickening throb of life. 

136 



AFTER A STORM 137 

We see around us in the twilight gloom 
Vague outlines of colossal forms. 
Faint shadows of ethereal thoughts. 
We hear close to us in the purple air 
Faint echoes of mysterious music, 
And the far off voice of sobbing passion. 

The heart's loud throbbing well nigh chokes 

The cry that rises to our lips. 

A hot mist blurs the vision, for at last 

The formless longings and unuttered songs 

Imprisoned long within our soul 

Shall be made manifest ! 

With pulsing joy and eager haste we strive 
To seize the forms, that vanish at our touch. 
We strain the ear to hear again the harmonies 
That die away in thread like notes. 
And Nothingness sits there in black and mock- 
ing silence. 
And laughs to think how many forms he may 
take on. 

This is just about the way I felt one morning 
as I sat at my window and looked out on the 
garden. There had been a storm the night be- 
fore and the heavy rain had cruelly beaten the 



138 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

lilac bushes until their blossoms lay strewn on 
the ground. The leaves in the flower buds were 
bespattered with mud and the petals of the 
geraniums were torn. The sky was clean washed 
and very blue, and the sun was shining in an 
unusually brilliant way as though to divert one's 
mind from the ravages committed during the 
night. But my flowers were gone and I mourned 
for them in the bright sunlight. They had 
scarcely reached their full beauty when the storm 
that was their undoing came. 

All through the spring days and for many 
weeks and months before, I had been seeking 
restlessly to solve the bothersome problem that 
is given in one form or another to each one of 
us to puzzle over. It seems very strange that 
so many of us have to seek so blindly and some- 
times so feverishly for a purpose in life. Why 
should n't we be given a purpose quite definitely 
and clearly along with eyes and ears and other 
indispensable accessories to human movement? 
I had never been able to get very much help on 
the subject, but I was always firm in my resolve 
to be independent, to live my own life and leave 
my own individual impress on whatever I did, 
however modest that work might be. The year 



AFTER A STORM 139 

of society after college had been very engross- 
ing, very exciting. It was beautiful to have 
flowers and parties and love made to one, but 
when it was over I found that really nothing had 
been done. I wasn't even engaged, which 
seemed to disappoint the family. Settlement 
work and charity entertainments the next year 
seemed to be a little more worth while, but I 
soon found that they were being tried as a 
panacea for various ailments by so many others 
that I lost interest. 

Then came the year abroad. I had intended 
following the usual beaten track, but I had met 
the Enthusiast on the steamer and he had told 
me of the joys of student life in Paris, of the 
vast learning of the Master, of the inspiration 
of his teaching, and I had persuaded my gentle, 
ease-loving elderly cousin twice removed, to 
settle down with me in the Latin Quarter. The 
Enthusiast had become my Mentor, and he 
had pointed out to me so many pleasant paths 
of learning that I shall ever feel for him a 
glow of gratitude. At that time it seemed 
very easy to decide to write and at the end of 
my happy year I had gone home full of ideas, 
but alas! my family and my friends laid hands 



140 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

upon me and I found the mornings slipping by 
with alarming quickness. The mornings that I 
had fondly imagined would be spent in intel- 
lectual labor, were frivolled away on riding, on 
tennis, on dressmakers. I found that no one 
would take me seriously, and I began to feel the 
possible ludicrousness of taking myself seriously. 
But it was very baffling, and the purpose in life 
which for a brief space had almost materialized, 
turned again into impalpable mist. Then I had 
a luminous moment when I saw quite clearly that 
if I was to accomplish anything I must get away 
from all the entanglements of family and friends 
and put myself where I would have every oppor- 
tunity of accomplishing something, if there was 
anything in me at all. I would give myself a 
chance to say something, if I had anything to 
say. I would put myself again in the old in- 
spiring environment and listen to the voices. 
Alas ! now that this was accomplished, now that 
I was here, I felt eager, enthusiastic, receptive. 
I almost heard the heavenly music but when I 
tried in turn to form something of what I felt 
and heard, I found my hand powerless and my 
brain a blank. I perhaps ought not to say a 
blank, but the images that came there were un- 



AFTER A STORM 141 

bidden, and for my purpose it might better far 
have been a blank. 

So this morning as I went back over the short 
years and looked into the garden I saw in the 
deflowered lilacs the sad confirmation of my 
own discouragement. And yet, so many women 
had accomplished great things. There was 
Madame Vancourt, whose virile grasp of subjects 
and clear and charming style had opened a dis- 
cussion more or less serious as to the wisdom 
of admitting women among the Immortals. She 
stood among the foremost writers of France 
to-day. Then there was charming Madame 
Roger, who wrote with equal grace in two lan- 
guages, and whose dainty pen did not hesitate 
to attack such a subject as Literary Ideas in the 
Nineteenth Century. There was dear, friendly 
Madame Bertrand, who spent all her mornings 
with her pen, and whose translations are a work 
of art ; and my gentle Hostess herself, who delves 
deep in philosophy and has made more than one 
abstruse English work clear to French readers. 
What had given them their power? Was it a 
larger meed of talent, or the gift of concentra- 
tion, or a source of inspiration that was hidden 
from me? 



142 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

Some days before, Madame Vancourt had sent 
me word that I might come to see her and I had 
gone with outward delight and inward trepida- 
tion, for she is a very great person and great 
in the way that I should like to be, hence I felt 
very small and insignificant and was grateful for 
the presence of my gentle Hostess, who went 
with me. Madame Vancourt lives very modestly 
in a third-floor apartment. A quiet little maid 
received us silently and conducted us through a 
narrow dark hall to a door which, when opened, 
revealed the salon. Madame Vancourt was 
seated in a high-backed arm chair near her 
writing desk, which had been scrupulously 
cleared off for her receiving day, and it looked 
as innocent of hard work as any American lady's 
desk. Madame Vancourt was dressed in black 
satin with a bit of lace at her throat. She sat 
very erect in her chair, not rising when we 
entered, but speaking words of welcome in a 
far-away, rather colorless voice. Her face is 
very white, her features rather masculine, and 
she smiles rarely, but when she does, all coldness 
vanishes and you understand her charm. I sat 
listening to her conversation with the gentle 
Hostess, feeling very young and ignorant and 



AFTER A STORM 143 

inexperienced, as I heard them speak familiarly 
of this and that great man, or discuss with inside 
knowledge some great event. 

As we sat there the door behind me opened 
and some one came, with a timid step, into the 
room. Madame Vancourt looked up, and her 
face was transfigured with a rare smile. She 
said simply, " Come in, mon ami" but her voice 
had another tone. For a moment the far away 
quality disappeared and it sounded rich and clear 
as a young girl's. 

In response to her words there came to greet 
us a little old gentleman, white-haired, some- 
what bent, with the kindliest, gentlest face I 
ever saw. He greeted us, then went over to 
the fireplace and spread his hands out to the 
blaze. It was Monsieur Vancourt, the husband 
of the writer. He looked so small, so self- 
effaced, so alone, that with a word of excuse I 
rose impulsively and went over to take a seat 
by his side. Madame Vancourt flashed a look 
of comprehension at me that compensated me 
for losing the delights of her conversation. I 
must confess that I scarcely knew how to address 
myself to the little husband now that I was 
beside him, but some inspiration led me to broach 



144 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

the subject of Greek Art. Perhaps it was be- 
cause he seemed so un-modern, so prior to our 
own century. Whatever was the origin of my 
inspiration its effect was most happy, for in a 
Httle while his effaced manner had taken on a 
certain individuaHty and he was talking with an 
eloquence which transformed him. 

When we left, my gentle Hostess said to me, 
" Who told you that M. Vancourt was a Greek 
scholar ? " 

" No one," I answered, " he just looked as 
though he ought to know something remote and 
fine." 

" Well, you entirely won Madame Vancourt's 
heart, for her one passion in the world is her 
husband. It was he who taught her all she 
knows, and who has been her inspiration in 
all that she does. He was a famous dilettante 
when she married him, and rich enough to in- 
dulge all his scholarly whims, but misfortune 
came and ill-health. Then Madame Vancourt 
rose to the occasion and asking him to teach her, 
she gave herself up wholly to literary work. 
We never dreamed in those days that Marguerite 
would become the brilliant writer she is now, 
and but few know or guess of the days and 



AFTER A STORM 145 

nights of ceaseless toil that she has spent in 
perfecting herself. She never could have accom- 
plished anything had it not been for him. It is 
his well stored, highly trained mind, joined to 
her vigorous will and her woman's power of 
adaptability, that have made her what she is." 

" But why does no one hear of M. Vancourt? " 
I asked, my sense of justice touched. 

" All who know her hear of him. The world, 
of course, cannot know. But he has never been 
strong, and perhaps he lacks that final touch of 
vigor and self-confidence which enables one to 
express oneself. She never could have accom- 
plished anything without him, and he never 
would have thought it worth while to express 
himself. It was their being together, and the 
sharp incentive of necessity, which developed this 
fruit of their talent." 



XVIII 

Dinners and Doubts 

TT may have been my respectful silence when 
"*- in Madame Vancourt's presence, or my un- 
conscious encouragement of M. Vancourt's 
eloquence that won me an invitation to dinner 
not long after. I accepted eagerly and went with 
fear and trembling for, being an American, I 
could not get over the little thrill of awe that 
the thought of meeting the intellectually great 
always gave me. My hostess received me 
graciously. She looked whiter than ever and 
very tall, but she had more warmth in her 
manner than usual and her rare illuminating 
smile came oftener. Her husband was gently 
self-effaced. When we were seated at table I 
looked about to get an impression of the guests. 
Next to the hostess sat the genial old bachelor, 
Monsieur Maillard, whom all Paris knows, beam- 
ing on every one, smiling, effervescent, his rosy 
cheeks and bright eyes protesting against the 
evidence of his whitening beard and hair. 
Opposite him sat the authority on Latin litera- 

146 



DINNERS AND DOUBTS 147 

ture, Monsieur Gaspard, whimsically humorous, 
inveighing against elevators and automobiles, and 
suggesting that Edward VII be asked to come 
and reign in France so as to put an end to labor 
troubles. Then there was Madame Delpit, tall 
and handsome in her velvet dress, with snowy 
shoulders and head rising above the soft black- 
ness of her gown. She was as animated as she 
was handsome, and had the elegant poise that 
comes from years of reigning by the right of 
wit and beauty. When she spoke, the rest 
listened. Even the Latin authority stopped his 
bantering to hear what she had to say. In 
sharp contrast to these were the young Ameri- 
can representative of a Boston publishing firm, 
and his pretty sister. He, tall, smooth-faced, 
a little ill at ease because of his unconquered 
French, but quite well bred. But it was cur- 
ious to notice how his lack of movement made 
him seem stiff and unexpressive among these 
gesticulating Frenchmen. His sister, exceed- 
ingly pretty, with that wayward, irregular pretti- 
ness one sees so often in Americans, blonde curly 
hair, brown eyes, tip-tilted nose, decided chin, 
lovable mouth, and dimples coming and going. 
There were numberless courses and much gay- 



14.8 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

ety, so the time at table did not seem long. The 
soupe veloutee aux champignons was followed 
graciously by sole frite upon whose tail came 
quickly a delicious poulet, and scarcely had its 
bones been picked when the roti came hardily 
on, to be hurried away by the crisp rustling of 
the Russian salad and an aristocratic foie gras in 
jelly. Then came cooling ices and strawberries, 
fruits and cakes with petits fours, a discretion. 
All these delectable viands were made even more 
piquant by the conversational sauce which accom- 
panied each course. Sometimes all were talking 
at once and then the hon mots fell so thick that 
every one who had ears to hear had a chance to 
laugh. At other times one would dominate and 
when he realized that he was being listened to 
by the rest he would unconsciously assume certain 
elegancies of expression, his wit would become 
more elaborate and he would be utterly in his 
element. Later when we went into the salon 
where the men accompanied us and did not 
abandon us immediately afterwards we were still 
not left in peace, but were followed by reminders 
that the feast was not yet over. Here we were 
cajoled by black coffee and opalescent liqueurs. 
We had scarcely overcome the immediate effects 



DINNERS AND DOUBTS 149 

of these when tea and other mild decoctions were 
brought in and the consumption of these was the 
signal for departure. 

All through the evening I had studied my 
hostess, for her white, strong face exerted a 
singular fascination over me. I noticed that she 
turned her glance very often towards her hus- 
band, and that there passed between them a 
look of perfect comprehension. When she was 
appealed to for an opinion on some abstruse 
question she would answer in the calm, decisive 
tones of her white voice, always cleverly and 
always to the point; then her eyes would seek 
those of Monsieur Vancourt, and she would say 
with her illuminating smile, " Is it not so, mon 
ami? " and he would answer, " Perfectly, per- 
fectly," but seldom add more. He seemed to be 
the inspiring power, and she the means of ex- 
pressing the ideas which did not always originate 
in her. 

" The best thought and the best work is that 
which has a dual origin," said Philippe when I 
was discussing Madame Vancourt and her hus- 
band with him afterwards. (That is a feature I 
don't like. Every one says Madame Vancourt 
and her husband, as though he were an after- 



150 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

thought. I believe in full credit being given to 
the woman, but I don't think it is necessary to 
advertise it in an offensive way.) " They are a 
wonderful example," continued Philippe, " of 
how two people may work together in perfect 
harmony and produce much finer results than 
if they were alone. Madame Vancourt has un- 
doubtedly great ability, but who knows how much 
of the grace, of the subtlety, and of the color, is 
due to him, while I am convinced that the charm 
of her work is born of their mutual love and 
understanding." 

By the way, I kept wishing all the time I was 
at Madame Vancourt's that Philippe had been 
there, for then I would have had the opportunity 
I wanted, to compare him face to face with an 
American. It is n't quite fair to judge him with- 
out actual objects of comparison. When I com- 
pare him with all other Frenchmen he is very 
much their superior and he is much nicer than 
many Americans I have known. I wonder how 
he would compare with my Boston cousins ? Bob 
has just finished his graduate course at Harvard 
and is still insufferable. When I see him I am 
always reminded of that line describing Saint 
Juste. 



DINNERS AND DOUBTS 151 

II porte sa tete comme le saint sacrement. 

And I know Bob considers his head the sacred 
depository of all learning and it mustn't be 
joggled for fear some of it will spill over. As 
for Ralph, he is so cram- full of athletics that 
you can't get an intelligible word out of him, and 
all he can discuss is the superiority of the East 
over the West in foot-ball, and everything else. 
Once I tried to talk to him about foreign culture, 
but he said such disagreeable things about 
Frenchmen that I wouldn't listen to him. I 
think many of our American young men are 
very narrow-minded. They are nice, jolly, 
brotherly playmates, but they care much more 
about success in athletics and business than about 
poetry. Now Philippe is what I would like a 
brother of mine to be, if I had one, — big, strong, 
a good rider, a fine shot, fond of tennis, despising 
golf, and yet able to talk with you about ideals, 
and not only never bored with poetry, but able 
to write it himself. 

Lately I seem to have been thrown more than 
usual among people who have done things in the 
world and my impatience of self increases. It's 
a very unpleasant feeling which sometimes be- 
comes physical in its intensity. I'm beginning 



152 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

to have a horrid doubt that something besides 
determination and toil is necessary. The other 
day the gentle Hostess and I went to a sort of 
literary tea, at least that 's what we would have 
called it in Boston. It was at the home of the 
bird-like Madame Rollin, and there were to be 
two very remarkable authors there. One, a 
famous Englishwoman who received fabulous 
sums for her magazine serials, and the other, a 
novelist whom two countries want to claim, and 
who has wisely adjusted matters by adopting the 
accent of one country, and occasionally allowing 
the other to hear him use it. There were some 
other people present just as remarkable, but they 
were French and could be met any day. How- 
ever, their presence had a quieting influence on 
the English lions, and they did not seem to stand 
out from their background in the conspicuous 
way they would have done in Boston, and their 
voices scarcely rose above a purr. 

Madame Rollin banished all possible heaviness 
and kept her foreign guests quite animated by 
her vivacity. I overheard the Authoress say to 
the Novelist, " Marie is astonishing. She is as 
young at fifty as she was at twenty. It is almost 
immoral, and a widow, too ! " 



DINNERS AND DOUBTS 153 

'' Have you read her last book ? " replied the 
Novelist, " the one she wrote before her hus- 
band's death? I doubt if she will ever write 
again anything so delightful, for although her 
husband was a scientist, he was a great inspira- 
tion to her in her literary work." 

It seemed to me I heard the same story every- 
where. Could no great work be done in the 
world unless the heart were moved ? Were love, 
and sympathy, and understanding, the basis of 
intellectual activity ? I did n't believe it, and I 
resolved to ask the gentle Hostess her opinion 
after dinner. But while sitting in the library 
waiting for Lucien's automatic summons to the 
dining room, I picked up one of the Master's 
volumes and read its dedication : " To my be- 
loved wife, without whose help and inspiration 
my voice would have been silent." That was 
what the gentle Hostess had been ! My question 
had been answered. 



XIX 

The Pilgrimage 

^TpHERE was much excitement in the House 
-*• of the Garden one spring morning, for we 
were going, all of us, to spend a week at the 
chateau. The merle woke me earlier than usual 
with his song, which seemed to say, " The sun is 
shining for you, free and happy creature. You 
can go out to the green country while I must stay 
here in my cage; but I have the dear garden to 
comfort me, the still and quiet garden, where 
none come but those who are beloved of the 
House." And when I rose and looked out of my 
window the sun was shining more beautifully 
than ever and the garden sent up sweet perfumes 
of morning as if to reproach me for seeking 
anything more fair in the world outside. The 
garden and I have a perfect understanding, how- 
ever, and it knows that if I go away for a while I 
shall always come back with the joy of coming 
home. 

We knew that the gentle Hostess had planned 
this trip as a sort of pilgrimage. For it was at 

154 



!^^ .'^/O -^ ^'-» ->.^^-> 



^.'^ 



■z,^ 



■U^fW 



,cS^ 



■•^ -"^1^'^'-^-^ 



^^ 




156 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

this time of the year that the Master had always 
loved to go into his Normandy and breathe the 
fresh air of his native province. The pilgrimage 
was not to be a sad one, for only those who had 
known the Master well were to go, and who 
could ever be quite sad who had once known 
him? Besides, we never could feel that we had 
wholly lost him, for his strong spirit pervaded the 
circle of his home still. So strong was the im- 
press of his personality that when talking of 
him I often lifted my eyes at some slight sound 
expecting to see him among us. And so, in 
starting on this spring morning, we felt a certain 
joyous expectancy, as if we were to join a loved 
one, for surely at the chateau which was so 
closely connected with him, we should feel his 
presence even more keenly. Besides, it was there 
he had been laid to rest and we would visit the 
hillside and the little chapel. 

We had to be at the Gare St. Lazare at eight 
o'clock, so Lucien and Alphonsine and the cook 
were here, there, everywhere, preparing for the 
early coffee, packing bags, giving instructions to 
the concierge, and getting the cabs into the court ; 
so that mesdames should not, by any failure of 
duty on their part, miss the train. Lucien and 



THE PILGRIMAGE 157 

Alphonsine were to go with us, for we could not 
imagine how a meal would taste unless served 
by him, and Alphonsine was always indispensable. 
Soon we were rattling over the stony streets, 
La petite grand'mere and the gentle Hostess in 
one cab, Germaine and I in the other, with Lucien 
sitting up very straight beside the driver, and in 
the third cab our little trunks, our big bags, and 
all our parcels. We were out so early that the 
streets lay asleep with all their shop windows 
closed. Here and there we met a grocer's wagon 
coming from the Halles, laden with fresh vege- 
tables, or a cart filled with flowers and pushed by 
a bent old woman. The street sweepers were the 
only other active ones astir, swishing the clean 
water from the gutters up over the pavement 
with their long ungainly brooms. 

When we reached the station we found the 
group of friends who were to go with us, already 
out on the quai by the little toy cars that were to 
take us on our six-hour trip. There was the 
Professor who had been the Master's most 
faithful disciple, and whose love for Saint Teresa 
and the rest of the calendar was secondary to 
his cult of the one who had helped him in his 
career. After the Master went away his grief 



158 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

was the helpless, pathetic sorrow of a child, and 
he had not yet recovered from the wondering 
pain of the blow. Then of course the Patriot 
was there, and for once la petite grand'mere low- 
ered her arms and declared a truce, ignoring 
all puzzling problems of his attire or theories. 
Philippe and his sister were there, too, for they 
had always been as son and daughter in the 
family. The Academician was to come on the 
next day, and that would complete our party. 

We made ourselves comfortable in two com- 
partments and soon the porters came along shut- 
ting the doors with much slamming. The little 
engine uttered half a dozen thin, convulsive 
shrieks, and the toy cars rattled out of the sta- 
tion over the tracks, high-walled on either 
side, and, finally escaping from them, made a 
dash into the green country, where our road 
was bordered by stiff little villas neatly kept, 
or by tall poplars, standing like very thin grena- 
diers, with big green shakes on their heads. 
Once in a while we screamed past a station where 
we could catch a glimpse of a blue-bloused 
facteur standing beside the Restaurant de la 
Gare. Sometimes our engineer condescended to 
stop at a city, where the houses stood close- 



THE PILGRIMAGE 159 

grouped, pressing around and climbing crowd- 
ingly the hill, on which rose a majestic cathedral, 
whose spires reached up into the blue sky, as 
though from out the huddling mass of stone and 
mortar some fine aspirations had detached them- 
selves to spring upward toward heaven. When 
hunger made itself felt, Lucien and Alphonsine 
appeared at one of the short stops with baskets 
containing fat sandwiches, tender chicken, and 
bottles of red wine, which they consigned to our 
care with smiling wishes for the good appetite 
of messieurs and mesdames. Their wishes were 
fulfilled and the baskets were soon emptied. 

The afternoon had worn half away when, 
with an unusually emphatic bump, the train 
stopped, too suddenly for comfort, beside the 
little station which marked the end of our 
journey. The carriages from the chateau were 
there to meet us, and the greetings of chatelaine 
and servants argued well for domestic harmony 
in that household. As we drove over the wind- 
ing road that took us to the chateau, my mind 
was full of the memory of my first visit when 
the Master was still there. I could feel again 
the thrill of anticipation with which I looked 
about me at the little station, the eager curiosity 



160 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

with which I gazed on the fair Normandy fields, 
and the quaint old village near the chateau. Then 
how like a story it seemed, to turn in at the lodge 
gate where the porter stood to salute us gravely : 
to drive under arching trees until suddenly we 
came out into a broad open space, where the 
driveway swept up to the chateau; and there, the 
fine old building stood out clear and bold against 
its background of trees. 

It was all there, and I breathed a sigh of per- 
fect satisfaction. Battlements and drawbridges, 
portcullis and moat, all that a well-regulated, 
ancestral castle should possess. To be sure the 
drawbridge was now always hospitably down and 
it was bordered with fresh confiding flowers, 
while the portcullis had a beautiful brown coat 
of rust on its protruding points that never more 
would come clanging down in sudden alarm. 
And the moat had not for generations been 
flooded, except by the rains of heaven, and was a 
wild luxurious tangle of vines and roses, that 
strove ambitiously to climb up and peep over the 
edge of their sunken bed. To complete the per- 
fect picture, there at his castle gate stood the lord 
of the demesne, with his lady at his right, and 
his retainers drawn up on either side. It was 



THE PILGRIMAGE 161 

exactly like a story book, and so were all the 
happy days that had followed when we wandered 
over the Normandy hills, to visit the graceful 
ruins of some old ahhaye, or when we played 
tennis on the terrace, while Fifi, the dog, dashed 
down into the moat to bring the balls back: or 
when we gathered in the great lamp-lit salon of 
an evening and listened to wise and brilliant 
words from the lips of poets and writers. For 
the Master always drew about him those who 
found in his wide knowledge and deep sympathy, 
new sources of inspiration. 

This time the picture was the same. The sta- 
tion, the village, the lodge, and the old gray castle, 
but the central figure was missing. We all strove 
to be very gay and not to let the gentle Hostess 
know how much we felt the lack, and everything 
aided in the kindly conspiracy. The notes of 
the birds were sweeter, the old gray walls were 
softer, the perfumed air more caressing, and the 
atmosphere of Spring spoke to our hearts of 
resurrection and of life. 

The first evening was the hardest, but when 
we came up from the big dining room down 
stairs, we women folk attacked our embroidery 
with ardor, and the men stood about and talked. 



162 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

Then we fell to playing cards and before we 
knew it Lucien appeared with tea and other calm- 
ing drinks and the dreaded first evening was over. 
I suppose in our blundering human way we 
did not accept the absence of the Master in the 
way we should, and hence his spiritual presence 
could not be felt. Afterwards we remembered 
this and as the hours passed we knew he was 
with us more and more, and the sense of restraint 
passed away and we no longer strove after a 
gayety we did not feel, but allowed the atmos- 
phere of content and peace to enter into our souls. 



XX 

The Chateau 

^nr^HE first morning when I awoke and went 
-*■ to my tower window I looked on a scene 
that almost compensated for the absence of my 
garden. The ground sloped gently down from 
the terrace to the clear still waters of the lake, 
still, except where they were rippled on the far 
side by a brook which leaped out in cascades 
from the cool shadows of the hillside. The water 
rushed into the little lake in a great flurry as 
though it had so much to tell of its adventures 
that it could not wait and was eager to stir up all 
the placid surface. But in a ridiculously short 
time, its turbulence was over and its babbling 
ceased, and it became part of the tranquil waters 
which lay undisturbed except by a falling leaf, 
or a passing zephyr, or when furrowed by the 
stately motion of a white-necked swan. All 
about the lake were white spring flowers and 
nodding violets, and beyond rose the undulating 
outline of green hills, melting into blue that beck- 
oned one with the cloudy promise of new beau- 

163 



164 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

ties to be revealed, if you would undertake the 
quest. But with all this before my eyes I was 
still loyal to my garden. It had one added 
charm, that of being a secret place hidden in a 
great city ; it was to be found only after seeking, 
and nothing about it bespoke its presence; 
while here the surroundings all proclaimed aloud 
that there must be sweep of lawn, gleam of water, 
and far-reaching vistas of hills ; so that when you 
came upon it, there was no special feeling of dis- 
covery. 

My room in the chateau was the same I had 
before; a tower room with deep window seats 
and walls hung with yellow tapestry. There was 
a tall canopied bed and quaint spindle-legged 
chairs. In the walls were closets that opened 
with secret springs, and clothes kept there, re- 
newed their freshness and acquired a perfume of 
lavender. 

The coffee that Alphonsine brought me had an 
added flavor because of the foaming hot milk 
which had a genuineness proven by the faint 
lowing of the cows in the distant meadows. I 
sat in the deep embrasure of my window while 
I sipped my morning nectar and watched the 
changing lights on lake and hills. All morning 



THE CHATEAU 165, 

it was very still about the chateau. Each one 
had his task to do and the unwritten law of the 
household was that no one should interfere with 
another's independence; so we were always left 
undisturbed, with that delicate appreciation of 
individuality which makes French hospitality so 
charming and so unexacting. 

When the luncheon time came at the half hour 
after midday we were eager to meet, as well as to 
eat, and there was a spontaneity about both that 
might have been lacking if we had had a beef- 
steak breakfast or unlimited access to one an- 
other's society. The long windows of the great 
dining room opened out on the terrace, where 
the shadow of the tall trees always kept a dewi- 
ness, as of unbrushed morning, on the sward 
and the vine-filled moat. After luncheon we 
went out on the terrace where the easy chair 
of la petite grand'mere was comfortably placed 
under the tallest tree. On a table beside her 
was her basket of embroidery ready for her 
busy fingers. Then came Lucien with the tray 
of fragrant black coffee and when we had 
discussed it, the games were brought out and 
all of us joined in the famous tonneau, where 
marvellous scores were made and competition ran 



166 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

high. Then the gentle Hostess arranged what 
we were to do during the hours before the five 
o'clock, and such was her discrimination that she 
always hit upon just the thing that we had been 
longing to do. Perhaps it was a visit to some 
old ruin, or to a neighboring chateau, or a drive 
to the little city where a gingerbread fair was 
going on. Before we were sent about our vari- 
ous pleasure trips, the gentle Hostess reminded 
us that the Academician was to arrive that day 
and would be at the chateau in time for the five 
o'clock. I was very anxious to meet the Aca- 
demician, for he was the youngest of the Immor- 
tals and had won fame in many countries by his 
songs. He had been devoted to the Master, and 
his poet's soul had reverenced the mind in which 
profound learning had never stifled, but rather 
glorified, artistic ideals, and for whom the history 
of words meant the history of humanity. 

Philippe, his sister Juliette, Germaine, and I 
went to the gingerbread fair, where we had a 
double enjoyment, that of seeing the wonderful 
array in the booths, and of watching the quaint 
Normandy peasants as they passed entranced 
from one fascmating display to another. The 
struggle in their minds between natural caution 



THE CHATEAU 167 

and curiosity grew nearly tragic as they listened 
to the allurements of an attraction where, they 
were assured by the eloquent " barker," they 
would see one of the marvels of the world, 
something that they ought not to miss ; for if the 
hon Dieu had sent into the world an armless, 
legless man, was it not disrespect on their part if 
they refused to see this manifestation of divine 
wrath ? But le hon Dieu had permitted this poor 
trunk to learn marvellous things, all of which he 
could be seen performing for the ridiculously 
small sum of five sous. Some younger ones 
yielded, overcome by the specious eloquence of 
the pious showman, while the older ones shook 
their heads dubiously and passed on to the next 
temptation. 

We were so carried away by the attractions of 
the place that we were late in returning; so that 
when we arrived we found every one assembled 
on the terrace and well on into the second cup 
of tea. The Academician, as the latest arrival, 
was the centre of attraction. He was a small 
slender man, very young looking, with delicate 
features and large eyes. He bore himself with 
an air of gentle deference that was very winning, 
especially when he turned to la petite grand'mere. 



168 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

Indeed, it would have been most unfitting had he 
not recognized with the rest of us that this was 
the hour when she held court. She always had 
a charmingly regal air, but at this time more than 
at any other did she exercise her sovereignty by 
the right of brilliancy and wit. She had had her 
refreshing nap, and her conversation was more 
sparkling, her repartee quicker than ever. The 
spontaneous homage that was paid her exhila- 
rated her and we all became her willing vassals. 
I think I never knew any one who so clearly 
made manifest in herself the relations of mind 
and body. When young she had been very beau- 
tiful, and her body had then been the dwelling 
place of a young and undeveloped soul, but, as 
the years passed her mind grew; intelligence of 
an unusual quality burned, and the light from 
within gradually transformed the features, which 
Time was touching with his withering hand, until 
the dwelling seemed to become a mere trans- 
parent covering for the brilliant mind that had 
been developing in a shelter, whose protecting 
beauty it now no longer needed, for its own glow 
was sufficient loveliness. 

After the tea Philippe and the Professor chal- 
lenged Juliette and me to a game of tennis. 



THE CHATEAU 169 

Juliette is tall and dark and just now is suffering 
from an attack of Anglomania induced, so her 
affectionate relative says, by the attentions of a 
young English officer. Whatever may be the 
cause, the result of the malady is that she dis- 
figures her pretty black hair by wearing a fringe 
and stiffens her slender neck by extraordinarily 
high collars. Her Anglomania has affected her 
beneficially, however, in that she cultivates all 
athletic sports and is a good tennis player. We 
get along famously together and she tells me a 
great deal about Philippe. I think it always 
speaks well for a man's character when his sister 
can be enthusiastic about him after several years 
of companionship. 

The Professor is a little slow and almost too 
polite to play such a game, for he insists upon 
stopping to pick up all Juliette's balls for her 
and handing them to her personally, which takes 
a good deal of valuable time. Despite these ener- 
vating courtesies the game was soon under way 
and grew so tense that conversation was restricted 
to the terse expressions of mixed French and 
English, and nothing was heard but, " £tes vous 
prete?''—'' Ou% play "—'' Trente, love"— '^Fa, 
Fifi, vite cherche la halle dans la fosse!" 



170 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

The lengthening shadows of the tall trees 
warned us at last that we must go to our rooms 
and dress for dinner. There were certain rigid 
laws in the chateau household and one was that 
at exactly half-past seven we must gather together 
in the salon, and five minutes thereafter we would 
trail, two by two, down the great stairway to the 
dining room below. The only feeling of nerv- 
ousness I ever experienced in this gracious home 
was at the thought of some time not being ready, 
and having to walk down the staircase and enter 
the dining room all alone. 

The dinner was very gay, for the Patriot and 
the Academician became engaged in a lively 
discussion as to the value of epics in the de- 
velopment of a nation. It was perhaps because 
of the discussion that when we were in the 
salon after dinner we begged the youngest Aca- 
demician to tell us of a pilgrimage he once 
made to Roncevaux with the Master, when they 
went to visit the scenes of great Roland's 
struggle and death. As he recounted simply 
but eloquently the events of those few days, 
when they lived with departed heroes, I re- 
called the tribute which this youngest Academi- 
cian had paid to the memory of the Master 



THE CHATEAU 171 

when he made his reception speech at the Acad- 
emy. " One evening upon the very threshold of 
Roncevaux I left the Master. I had accompa- 
nied him to the last turn of the road of Valcarlos. 
He was to go on his way, I was to descend the 
hill again, for I did not wish to come between 
him and Charlemagne. Standing beneath an oak 
mighty as was his genius, near a spring clear as 
was his conscience, he waved me a last good-bye. 
Then at the turn of the road he disappeared — 
as he has just now disappeared from our eyes to 
mount still higher." 

I came back from my memories to hear the 
Professor say in a less scientific tone than usual, 
" There is no more delightful task for the scholar 
than to enter painstakingly into the past, and to 
find amid his researches the unchangeableness 
and freshness of human nature. The same sins 
and the same virtues have existed since time 

began and " Here the Patriot interrupted 

him. 

" And it is the highest duty of every man who 
loves his country to make the virtues of the 
past, as incarnated in great men, live again and 
so keep alive in every generation the power to 
appreciate what is noble in its own land." 



172 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

" Yes," said the gentle Hostess, looking affec- 
tionately at the youngest Academician, " and the 
poet who can understand the soul of a hero and 
make him live and speak again, so that thousands 
laugh and weep to hear him, has done even more, 
for he has known how to touch the heart of his 
people." 

I was sitting beside la petite grand'mere and at 
this point she spoke, patting my hand gently the 
while. " The soul of the hero belongs to no one 
country and to no one generation. A country- 
man of this child taught me as no one else ever 
did the simple beauty and heroism of Jeanne 
d'Arc. Perhaps," and here la petite grand'mere 
smiled enigmatically, " perhaps it is because he 
is a humorist, but I assure you that he has under- 
stood the heart of a woman, of a heroine, and it 
is the same, be it French or Polish or American. 
In heroism there is no distinction of sex or race." 

I drew nearer to la petite grand'mere, for I felt 
a warmer feeling at the heart and a deeper thrill 
of sympathy for her and all she represented. If 
we had the same conceptions about the real 
things of life, of what little consideration were 
local ideas and provincial training and so-called 
national differences? 



THE CHATEAU 173 

The moon was silvering the little lake as I sat 
for a while in my deep window, feeling the velvet 
air of night touch my cheeks. The trees here 
are too stately, the grounds too vast for me to 
feel a sense of intimacy, as I do with my dear 
wall-encircled garden in Paris. There we can 
whisper secrets to each other and the convent 
walls hold them fast, but here I scarcely dare 
think, lest some indiscreet breeze snatch my fool- 
ish thoughts and whirl and toss them to the other 
side of the chateau, and heaven knows who might 
hear them ! But I do allow myself to think with 
a grateful glow of la petite grand'mere and her 
words. 

There are words so unfortunately uttered that 
they fix themselves in the memory like milestones, 
where they stand as marks to show the distance 
which is separating us from our friends, while 
there are others so fitly spoken that they are like 
the warm pressure of a hand welcoming us to a 
new and lovely home. 







XXI 

When East Meets West 

" East is East and West is West 
And never the twain shall meet." 

T DON'T know why this little couplet should 
"■■ have been ringing in my ears when I awoke 
in the morning on the day before we left the 
chateau. Perhaps it was because of the warm 
discussion we had had the evening before, when 
the Patriot broke forth into a tirade against the 
poetical tricks of such writers as Kipling, and 
showed an animosity that would have been pain- 
ful had it not been slightly ludicrous. The coup- 
let haunted me in the obsessive and annoying 

174 



WHEN EAST MEETS WEST 175 

way a jingle sometimes has, even when I mounted 
and rode away with Philippe on our long-planned- 
for ride to the town by the sea. I amused myself 
by teaching it to him and then teased him laugh- 
ingly about his accent. He speaks his vowels so 
musically and touches his consonants so lightly 
that he even inflates our wretched little definite 
article with some self respect. 

The morning was glorious, with the sunshine 
flooding all the hills and lighting up the still dewy 
valleys. The joy of just being was an intoxi- 
cation and my heart beat with the happiness of 
living, a happiness that invaded every part of me 
and made my nerves tingle deliciously. It was 
just the kind of morning to have a good horse 
under you, to feel yourself one with him, and 
to gallop over the hard roads, the breeze blowing 
against your face, and never a care in your mind 
as to when it would end, to feel exultingly that 
you could gallop on thus forever to the other 
side of the world. We did not talk very much. 
In the first place we could n't, for conversation 
cannot very well be carried on when your horses 
are taking long swinging leaps and the wind 
makes a rushing noise in your ears, and in the 
second place it had been rather hard to talk to 



176 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

Philippe for the last day or two. Something 
seemed to have clouded our lovely friendship. 
Philippe has, ever since I first knew him, been a 
dear audacious fellow and I've let him say nice 
poetic things to me that seemed all right, because 
they had a real literary value. Besides, he 
nearly always talked this way when other people 
were around. Of course no one heard what he 
said, but there was always danger of some one 
overhearing, and that made it seem all right for 
me to listen. When we happened to be really 
alone, we always talked of very serious things, 
of his work on Pascal, of the career of diplomat 
which his father wanted him to follow, of poetry 
and literature and all sorts of nice things. But 
since we came to the chateau it 's been different. 
The atmosphere perhaps has changed things. At 
any rate I don't feel that I can say trifling things 
here and it seems that every one ought to be 
very simple and straight-forward and truthful. 
Maybe Philippe has felt a difference, too, for 
when we have been together he has n't been the 
same, and we both experience a preliminary 
awkwardness of self-consciousness before we get 
fairly launched into the conversation. It is n't a 
bit pleasant and it makes one surmise all sorts of 



WHEN EAST MEETS WEST 177 

ridiculous things. I dOn!t like to have to wonder 
whether a person likes me or not. I want to be 
very sure that he does, so that I can devote my 
energies and intellect to speculating on my own 
feelings in the matter. 

Now, up to this time, I have n't worried at all 
as to Philippe's attitude toward me: I just knew 
he liked me and the only question that bothered 
me was how much I should let him like me. 
But here at the chateau, in this place where 
generations of culture look down on me, where 
I feel a certain heretofore unfelt, sharp con- 
trast between my own crudity and the ripe 
wisdom of all about me, I have become sud- 
denly very conscious of the difference between 
the mental culture of two or three generations 
and that of forty. When I think that the peo- 
ple at home consider me an uncomfortable 
phenomenon of learning, and speak of me as a 
person who is " real literary," I feel a sinking 
sensation and a hot flush comes to my cheeks. 
I try to uphold my courage with the reflection 
that we are a great people, that ancestors are 
much less important than posterity, that we have 
done marvels as a nation. All in vain. My dig- 
nity oozes out, and I feel very flabby and unfit to 



178 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

appear among those I would fain impress. All 
these things had made us change places as it were, 
and now I found myself anxiously waiting for 
Philippe to begin a conversation, and I had to 
make several trials before I was really comfort- 
ably in the running. This was most humiliating, 
and I made vast efforts to conceal my real feel- 
ings and I kept wishing that things might go 
back to their old friendly way, when I, at least, 
had no doubts. Doubts are horrid, especially 
when you have them about yourself. On this 
particular morning the gallop broke down any 
artificial barriers that self-consciousness had set 
up, and when our horses fell into a slower gait I 
forgot all about analyzing myself and was simply 
happy. Philippe looked very tall and strong on 
his big bay horse and it was good to be beside 
him. 

Our principal errand to the town by the sea 
was to visit Monsieur and Madame Dupont. 
Their plain and unromantic name gave no hint 
of the poetic story of their lives as Philippe told 
it to me that morning. 



XXII 

The Romance of Mademoiselle 
Donatienne 

]% yTANY years before Mademoiselle Dona- 
^^^ tienne Fabre was the belle of the town by 
the sea. She was tall and slim and dark-eyed, 
with the gayest of natures and the tenderest of 
hearts. She loved old women and children best, 
and the young men of the town sighed in vain 
for her. There was one in particular, a quiet 
silent fellow who was known as old mere 
Dupont's son. His father had been watchmaker 
and jeweler to the town and when he died la mere 
Dupont carried on the business and brought up 
Pierre under a rule of iron. Pierre was now 
nominal master, but the legend over the shop 
Dupont veuve, successeur, spoke the truth, for 
the Widow Dupont still ruled and Pierre was a 
dutiful and submissive son. The widow Dupont 
was very large and stout, with sparkling black 
eyes and cheeks of rosy red, but the corners of 
her mouth were drawn lugubriously down, and 
before the public she always presented the pic- 

179 



180 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

ture of the inconsolable one, the light of whose 
life had gone out. Behind the closed shutters, 
however, and when alone with Pierre, her activi- 
ties were devoted to devising ways and means by 
which the tidy sum left by the lamented Dupont 
should be doubled and perhaps trebled. Pierre 
had a soul for other things, he lacked acquisi- 
tiveness, he had a taste for romance and poetry 
which he surreptitiously fed by furtive reading 
of the feuilleton, or by a stray copy of Bernardin 
de St. Pierre, or Chateaubriand, that fell in his 
way. But he was a dutiful soul and so he 
plodded along his daily rounds and never dis- 
puted with his filial destiny but replied mildly to 
her oft repeated and irritatingly minute injunc- 
tions, " Mais oui, ma mere, ne finquiete pas '' 

But when once the radiance of Mademoiselle 
Donatienne's beauty had lighted up the soul of 
the faithful Pierre it was destined never to grow 
dim and the love awakened glowed steadily 
through storm and sunshine. Pierre, alas! was 
not handsome. He was short and showed an 
early predisposition to stoutness. His face was 
round, his features undistinguished, but his soul 
was poetic even though consigned to the most 
prosaic and homely of earthly tenements of clay. 



MADEMOISELLE DONATIENNE 181 

And so he worshipped Mademoiselle Donatienne, 
at first at a distance and then gradually embold- 
ened, he came nearer to his divinity. His moth- 
er's violent opposition developed in him a gentle 
obstinacy which nothing could move. The widow 
Dupont had other plans for Dupont fils, succes- 
seur, and had already made overtures to a neigh- 
boring maiden lady of a certain age who 
possessed property, and a large nose, which was 
always red at the end. So the widow Dupont 
looked with strong disfavor on her son's leaning 
toward the fair Donatienne and resolved to 
break it off promptly. But Pierre showed an 
inactive resistance to all her efforts, which baf- 
fled her completely. 

Then came a tragedy into the life of 
Donatienne. A dimness came over her bright 
eyes and, when they took her to a famous Paris 
doctor, who was at the neighboring seaside resort, 
he shook his head and said there was little hope, 
that perhaps some time later on there might be 
an operation, but for the present it must mean 
darkness. So Donatienne passed from happy 
daylight into black night, but her courage never 
forsook her. She was less gay and she was 
more tender than ever with little children. Her 



182 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

lovers forsook her, of course, for none of them 
could think of undertaking the burden of a bHnd 
wife. Pierre alone was faithful and despite his 
mother's commands, taunts, and finally entrea- 
ties, he continued to go steadily to the little 
house where Mademoiselle Donatienne sat doing 
interminable knitting. He read to her and 
talked to her, but he did more of the former than 
of the latter, for he had never been very articu- 
late. Finally, during a fit of rage, the widow 
Dupont was stricken with paralysis and her 
sharp tongue was silenced. Her huge frame lay 
helpless on the bed and refused to do the bidding 
of the mind that still seemed active, and that 
strove to express its will in the restless fierce 
black eyes that followed every movement in the 
room. After a year of this enforced silence on 
his mother's part, Pierre dared to tell Made- 
moiselle Donatienne of his love and begged her 
to marry him, but she refused to bring to him 
an added burden. She was poor, but she could 
help to support herself, and she was happy in 
his friendship. None of his arguments or 
prayers availed with her, for Pierre became elo- 
quent in the eagerness of his desire. 



MADEMOISELLE DONATIENNE 183 

The years passed. The widow Dupont clung 
fiercely to life, as if she knew that only thus 
could she keep her son from marrying a blind 
wife. Pierre grew bald and stout ; Mademoiselle 
became more and more Madonna-like. She was 
always knitting, and she always had some children 
about her, except when Monsieur Pierre came, 
and then either because of established custom 
or from instinct they were left alone. Pierre 
would read from the Petit Journal, and when 
that had been discussed he would bring out a 
well-worn copy of Chateaubriand and read of 
the ill-fated love and wildly improbable lives of 
Atala and Chactas. Once in a while at some 
melancholy plaint of the gloomy hero, or at some 
new misfortune of the beautiful heroine, Made- 
moiselle Donatienne would wipe away a tear and 
Monsieur Pierre would stop, pull out a huge 
handkerchief, unfold it, apply the exact middle 
of it to the offending member, and blow violently. 

But there came a morning when the widow 
Dupont did not open her eyes, and the helpless 
body that had been still for so long took on a 
more rigid look. Pierre dutifully arranged for 
an imposing funeral and he ordered an enormous 



184 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

purple bead wreath to be laid on the coffin, the 
like of which had never been seen in the town 
by the sea. 

A few days after the funeral Monsieur Pierre 
with a half -concealed look of satisfaction went 
into the room, which had been occupied by his 
mother, and opened a chest, which had remained 
firmly closed ever since his mother's illness. He 
unlocked it now without the least hesitation, drew 
therefrom a plump woollen stocking and emptied 
its contents on the table. When he had counted 
the coins his satisfaction became quite open, and 
with a smile on his face he gathered the money 
together, took it to the old notary and asked for 
bank notes. The next morning there was a 
great stir in the town by the sea, for it was 
rumored, then stated as a fact, that Monsieur 
Pierre had taken the early morning train for 
Paris. The chef de gare himself had sold him 
his ticket and when he had said to him, with 
casual cunning, " Monsieur Dupont goes to Paris 
to see about the inheritance ? " Monsieur Pierre 
had only smiled and said enigmatically, " The 
weather is about to change and we shall have 
sunshine to-day." 

The stir of the first day was but as the gentle 



MADEMOISELLE DONATIENNE 185 

breeze to the roaring tornado compared with 
the excitement produced when, two days after, 
Monsieur Pierre was seen descending from the 
Paris train, accompanied by a tall man, who 
walked beside Monsieur Pierre with a quick, 
business-like air. They went directly, not to the 
house still bearing the legend Dupont veuve, suc- 
cesseur, but, most astounding thing of all, to the 
house of Mademoiselle Donatienne Fabre. They 
disappeared therein, and then the excitement took 
voice and it was said that this was the famous 
surgeon, who could perform marvellous cures on 
the blind, and that he had come on purpose to 
heal Mademoiselle Donatienne. And when the 
children heard this, some of them took to crying 
softly lest their beloved Ma'mselle might be hurt. 
Everything was known by nightfall, and it was 
the talk at all the little cafe restaurants that 
Monsieur Pierre had taken his mother's hoarded 
money — they all knew she was an old miser — 
and had gone to Paris to bring the great man 
down who was to remove the blindness from 
Ma'mselle. The operation would be in the 
morning and no one might know how it would 
turn out. When, the next morning, the surgeon 
was seen to go to Mademoiselle Donatienne's, a 



186 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

great hush fell on the town by the sea and their 
silence spoke more eloquently than prayers, of 
how close to the hearts of all was the fate of the 
Madonna-faced blind woman. As for Monsieur 
Pierre, no one saw him, for he had shut himself 
up in his mother's room, behind the shop, and 
the iron shutters of the night were still down. 
He would not have them opened until he knew 
that Donatienne would see again.. 

After a time of agonizing suspense a whisper 
was heard, " It has been successful. He says 
that she will see again." The great surgeon 
went to Monsieur Pierre and after a while the 
little errand boy came running out and began 
winding up the shutters. The display of 
watches, a tous prix, glittered in the sunlight; 
and soon Monsieur Pierre, a little pale and trem- 
bling about the mouth, was at the disposition of 
the public. 

The great surgeon went back to Paris the next 
morning and, after long days spent in a darkened 
room. Mademoiselle Donatienne came gradually 
back to the light, and the first human face 
she saw was the round smiling countenance of 
Monsieur Pierre — no longer the young face of 
the lover she remembered, not in the least resem- 



MADEMOISELLE DONATIENNE 187 

bling the classic features of the romantic lovers 
they read of together, but fat, and to one who 
knew him not, very commonplace. If she suf- 
fered any disappointment she never showed it. 
When the excitement had died down, there 
were many who felt a reaction from the un- 
usual indulgence in sentimentality, who shook 
their heads and said that Monsieur Pierre had 
doubtless spent a mad sum of money on this, and 
that it was a question whether it was worth while 
to spend it on an old maid who had grown quite 
used to her condition, and who got along very 
nicely as it was. However, no one criticised 
when, one Saturday, Monsieur Pierre and Made- 
moiselle Donatienne went to the mairie and 
signed some papers and the next day received 
the priestly benediction. The sign of Dupont 
veuve, successeur, was painted over, and instead 
there appeared Pierre Dupont, Horloger, 



?«.• ^^: 




XXIII 

The Kevelation 

A S Philippe finished telHng me this story our 
-^ ^ horses' hoofs struck the cobble stones of 
the long main street and we walked them up to 
the very sign of the story. Monsieur Pierre 
Dupont himself came out to greet us, looking as 
little like the hero of a romantic tale as it is pos- 
sible to imagine. His rubicund visage beamed 
delightedly as he helped me dismount, and he 
was profuse in his thanks to Monsieur Philippe 
for having come all this distance to bring the 
annual greeting from the chateau. Madame 
Dupont would be enchanted to see us if we would 
pass to the salon. We went into the dark stuffy 

188 



THE REVELATION 189 

little room beyond the shop. When my eyes 
had adjusted themselves to the twilight I saw on 
the centretable an old-fashioned copy of Atala. 

I was somewhat prepared for the sweet spir- 
itual face of Madame Dupont, whose large eyes 
seemed to look through surfaces down into the 
soul of things. But my imagination, fired by 
Philippe's way of telling a story, was not pre- 
pared for the matter-of-fact little household. 
I'm not sure that I had any definite idea of 
what I expected, but the outside of the simple 
menage betrayed nothing of the romantic history 
of Monsieur and Madame Dupont, except of 
course the volume of Chateaubriand. 

" I suppose that rotund little man is a hero in 
the eyes of Madame Dupont," quoth I, as we 
were going homeward. 

" Yes, and she is to him the realization of a 
beautiful dream," said Philippe. 

We were passing a little church in the bend 
of the road just outside the town. A white- 
robed procession of children was marching 
toward it. The little girls wore long white 
skirts, which they managed awkwardly but 
proudly, and veils floated over their thin shoul- 
ders. Some of them had an air of self-conscious 



190 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

importance that showed itself in preoccupation 
with their dress, while others walked with down- 
cast eyes and hands folded over their little 
prayer-books, touched by the mystic significance 
of the communion ceremony. The boys fol- 
lowed, dressed in new black suits, with bows of 
white satin ribbon floating from their shoulders, 
and broad white collars. The proud parents 
walked alongside, but at some distance from the 
procession, looking with satisfied eyes on the 
little brides of Christ and feeling that the last 
great step in the religious training of their chil- 
dren was about to be accomplished. The more 
provident of the peasant mothers had baskets 
with little cakes of brioche in them, so that as 
soon as the spiritual necessities of their children 
had been ministered unto, they might feed their 
poor fasting bodies with something delectable 
and substantial. 

We halted a moment to look at them and 
passed on, touched by the sight, and silent. 
Suddenly I heard an exclamation from Philippe, 
and looking up I saw an automobile coming at 
breakneck speed down the road. As it came 
nearer we noticed that it had a curious swaying 
motion as though not well controlled. V/e rode 



THE REVELATION 191 

up on the side out of its way. I looked at 
Philippe. He was staring at the oncoming car 
with a hard, strained look. I followed his gaze 
and noticed that there was no one in the car but 
the chauffeur. He was sitting in a queer hud- 
dled way and his head moved foolishly with the 
jolts of the machine. As the car passed us 
Philippe cried, " Mon Dieu, les enfants!" and 
wheeled his horse, digging his spurs in deep. 
I think my horse must have been stunned, as 
was I. I turned and sat nervelessly watching. 
It came over me as a horrid dream that the 
chauffeur was ill and losing control of his car, 
that the machine was a frenzied living thing, mad 
with sudden hope of liberty, and that Philippe was 
galloping after. Faster and faster went his 
horse, and I watched. The nerveless feeling 
gave way to exulting pride in the man on the 
horse and then, just before they reached the turn 
in the road, to a gripping fear that made my 
heart beat with a stabbing pain. For I saw 
Philippe alongside, ahead; then I saw Philippe 
rise and he seemed to shoot off his horse into 
the car. I covered my eyes with my hands, and 
I found myself sobbing hard, dry sobs. Then 
I looked again. The car was out of sight. It 



192 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

had made the turn. Philippe must have con- 
trolled it and, giving my startled horse a sudden 
cut of the whip, I dashed down the road. It 
had happened so quickly and we had felt so 
much in a few seconds, that it seemed quite 
natural to find near the church a procession dis- 
appearing into its cool aisles, a procession whose 
rear guard was somewhat distracted from the 
contemplation of holy things by the sudden 
advent of one of those wicked Parisian auto- 
mobiles driven apparently by two reckless chauf- 
feurs, and accompanied by a riderless horse. 
The machine had stopped suddenly just before 
it reached them, and now one of the drivers 
seemed to be asleep. Those Parisians were 
astonishing! The white- robed procession dis- 
appeared entirely, the murmured tones of a 
sleepy priest were heard and the rustling sound 
of a kneeling congregation. 

The chauffeur died soon after. The physician 
whom we found said that racing men often died 
suddenly thus from an attack of the heart. 

It was late when we at last reached the chateau, 
but as we rode home in the deepening twilight 
there was no doubt in my heart any longer and 



THE REVELATION 193 

when Philippe broke the silence I knew what I 
would answer. 

The foolish little couplet of the morning came 
into our minds and Philippe repeated with his 
adorable accent: 

" East is East and West is West 
And never the twain shall meet." 
" C'est un menteur, ce Kipling/' . . . And 
Philippe proved his statement. 




XXIV 
Evening in the Garden 

'T^HE chateau had now new memories clus- 
-^ tering about it, and yet I was glad to come 
back to Paris. Only a few days were left before 
going to my real home across the sea. Was it 
to be my real home any longer ? We had decided 
to keep our secret until Philippe could come and 
conquer the Anglo-Saxon. Not even the gentle 
Hostess was to know until paternal consent had 
been obtained. Only the Garden was to know. 
The last evening came all too soon. It was a 
Friday just before the Fete Dieu. Philippe had 
come to dinner and as the evenings had grown 
longer there was a bit ot twilight after we came 

194 



EVENING IN THE GARDEN 195 

from the dining room and before Lucien lighted 
the lamps. Philippe was beside me on the 
balcony. La petite grand'mere, who feared a 
courant d'air, was seated in the salon with the 
gentle Hostess and little Germaine. Their 
voices, grown so dear to me, came in broken 
phrases as though the parting had already begun. 
Philippe and I looked out into the twilight. 
Down in the convent garden, separated from ours 
by the low ivy-covered wall, the seven or eight 
remaining nuns, not yet driven from their home, 
had been gliding softly and quickly about among 
the paths. These poor nuns wore an air of 
pathetic sorrow, for they were in daily expecta- 
tion of being compelled to leave the quiet home 
that had been theirs for years. They were glori- 
fied by the tragic beauty of something that is 
about to pass away. When the shadows grev/ 
deeper and the tall trees looked black against the 
silvery sky, we saw these silent sisters flit from 
place to place on the grass, stoop, rise and pass 
on. And everywhere they stopped they left a 
wavering greenish light like a captive glow worm. 
These spots of light grew here and there in the 
grass, and marked the trail of the black-robed 
figures as they passed from bush to low branch- 



196 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

ing tree. In the shadiest part of the Garden, 
where the trees grew close together and the 
bushes crowded at their feet and the vines swung 
low, there stood a meek drooping figure of the 
Virgin. About her the lights glowed more 
radiantly and the rude carven stone took on a 
softened human outline, and Our Mother of 
Sorrows seemed to look with gentle and infinite 
pity on the sad little scene before her. For now 
there came from the convent door a solemn pro- 
cession of black-robed figures, gliding like shad- 
ows down the winding paths past the huge glow 
v/orms in the grass and filing around the image 
of their Lady. As they walked they chanted in 
the clear, high passionless tones of those who 
live out of the world, or who do not know it yet. 
The hymn was addressed to Our Lady of the 
Sacred Heart, an appeal to one who had known 
deepest anguish from those who were passing 
through deep waters of affliction. A silence fell 
upon them when they at last stood before the 
image, and then the sweet high monotone of 
the oldest sister rose and fell as she repeated the 
prayers, which were punctuated by murmured 
replies, like a sudden rustling in the leaves. 
After the last Amen the clear soprano voices 



EVENING IN THE GARDEN 197 

were heard again, the song rose with a more 
poignant note, and the shadows ghded back 
around the winding paths and melted away into 
the darkness of the convent. Then the glow 
worms died one by one, the Virgin grew more 
still and faded into the whispering background, 
and the Garden was dark and silent save for the 
twittering of a sleepless bird. 

The morning has come and I must say good- 
bye. All the world is astir. The sun is shining 
gloriously, the merle is gayly and heartlessly 
singing his farewell and cares little for the pang 
I feel at leaving him. 

Jean has come early with the voiture a galerie 
and is already busy with Lucien taking down my 
trunks. Jean, our old Breton butler, brought 
me over from America and he feels that no one 
else can successfully take care of Mademoiselle. 
He has had a happy vacation on the Breton sands 
and is going back with a profound contempt for 
French kitchens, and their lack of modern im- 
provements. 

I swallow my coffee, but cannot swallow the 
lump in my throat. Then quickly I turn to 
embrace Germaine, still half asleep, and la petite 



198 A GARDEN OF PARIS 

grand' mere, who says, "If it were only au 
revoir, but for me it is adieu," and then my per- 
fect Hostess. Hurriedly I run down the stairs to 
hide my tears, and into the waiting carriage. 
Up at the window and framed by it, are the faces 
of those who have been so dear to me during the 
last months. La petite grandfmere calls out to 
Jean, " Take good care of our dear Mademoi- 
selle," and Jean, striking a fine attitude, replies, 
" With the French Government guarding the 
American Republic, nothing can go wrong ! " 

The driver whips up his horses, we go clatter- 
ing out of the stone-paved court and into the 
streets. The great green doors close upon me 
and now they seem to look benevolently at me as 
if to say, " Never fear, we shall guard your Gar- 
den and keep it fresh and cool and sweet. It 
will wait for you and when you come back, 
whether weary and disappointed, or glad and 
exulting', it will be here to calm you or to comfort 
you and to give you great joy." 



2 19l» 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



OCT 



V 



